‘I have come to ask your advice and help,’ began Mutimer with directness.  He was conscious of the necessity of subduing his voice, and had a certain pleasure in the ease with which he achieved this feat.  It would not have been so easy a day or two ago.

‘Ah, about this awkward affair of yours,’ observed Mr. Westlake with reference to Richard’s loss of his employment, of which, as editor of the Union’s weekly paper, he had of course at once been apprised.

’No, not about that.  Since then a very unexpected thing has happened to me.’

The story was once more related, vastly to Mr. Westlake’s satisfaction.  Cheerful news concerning his friends always put him in the best of spirits.

He shook his head, laughing.

’Come, come, Mutimer, this’ll never do!  I’m not sure that we shall not have to consider your expulsion from the Union.’

Richard went on to mention the matters of legal routine in which he hoped Mr. Westlake would serve him.  These having been settled—­

‘I wish to speak of something more important,’ he said.  ’You take it for granted, I hope, that I’m not going to make the ordinary use of this fortune.  As yet I’ve only been able to hit on a few general ideas; I’m clear as to the objects I shall keep before me, but how best to serve them wants more reflection.  I thought if I talked it over with you in the first place—­’

The door opened, and a lady half entered the room.

‘Oh, I thought you were alone,’ she remarked to Mr. Westlake.  ‘Forgive me!’

‘Come in!  Here’s our friend Mutimer.  You know Mrs. Westlake?’

A few words had passed between this lady and Richard in the lecture-room a few weeks before.  She was not frequently present at such meetings, but had chanced, on the occasion referred to, to hear Mutimer deliver an harangue.

’You have no objection to talk of your plans?  Join our council, will you?’ he added to his wife.  ‘Our friend brings interesting news.’

Mrs. Westlake walked across the room to the curved window-seat.  Her age could scarcely be more than three- or four-and-twenty; she was very dark, and her face grave almost to melancholy.  Black hair, cut short at its thickest behind her neck, gave exquisite relief to features of the purest Greek type.  In listening to anything that held her attention her eyes grew large, and their dark orbs seemed to dream passionately.  The white swan’s down at her throat—­she was perfectly attired—­made the skin above resemble rich-hued marble, and indeed to gaze at her long was to be impressed as by the sad loveliness of a supreme work of art.  As Mutimer talked she leaned forward, her elbow on her knee, the back of her hand supporting her chin.

Her husband recounted what Richard had told him, and the latter proceeded to sketch the projects he had in view.