were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which had come to him in the dead of night, when he could let himself go and have no fear of the frost of criticism.  No doubt they had often been written up hastily by the light of the moon, the rays of the lamp, in the blue-grey dawn, in full daylight perhaps never.  And now her hair was dragging where his arm had lain when he secured the fugitive fancies; she was sleeping on a poet’s lips, immersed in the very essence of him, permeated by his spirit as by an ether.

While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came upon the stairs, and in a moment she heard her husband’s heavy step on the landing immediately without.

‘Ell, where are you?’

What possessed her she could not have described, but, with an instinctive objection to let her husband know what she had been doing, she slipped the photograph under the pillow just as he flung open the door, with the air of a man who had dined not badly.

‘O, I beg pardon,’ said William Marchmill.  ’Have you a headache?  I am afraid I have disturbed you.’

‘No, I’ve not got a headache,’ said she.  ‘How is it you’ve come?’

’Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all, and I didn’t want to make another day of it, because of going somewhere else to-morrow.’

‘Shall I come down again?’

’O no.  I’m as tired as a dog.  I’ve had a good feed, and I shall turn in straight off.  I want to get out at six o’clock to-morrow if I can . . .  I shan’t disturb you by my getting up; it will be long before you are awake.’  And he came forward into the room.

While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed the photograph further out of sight.

‘Sure you’re not ill?’ he asked, bending over her.

‘No, only wicked!’

‘Never mind that.’  And he stooped and kissed her.

Next morning Marchmill was called at six o’clock; and in waking and yawning she heard him muttering to himself:  ’What the deuce is this that’s been crackling under me so?’ Imagining her asleep he searched round him and withdrew something.  Through her half-opened eyes she perceived it to be Mr. Trewe.

‘Well, I’m damned!’ her husband exclaimed.

‘What, dear?’ said she.

‘O, you are awake?  Ha! ha!’

‘What do you mean?’

’Some bloke’s photograph—­a friend of our landlady’s, I suppose.  I wonder how it came here; whisked off the table by accident perhaps when they were making the bed.’

‘I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in then.’

‘O, he’s a friend of yours?  Bless his picturesque heart!’

Ella’s loyalty to the object of her admiration could not endure to hear him ridiculed.  ‘He’s a clever man!’ she said, with a tremor in her gentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for.

’He is a rising poet—­the gentleman who occupied two of these rooms before we came, though I’ve never seen him.’