The establishment soon understood that Mr. Ayrton intended dining within those walls.  Fresh potatoes were put on to boil.  The landlady came up herself to arouse the fire.  The maid was for a quarter of an hour hovering between the order to get ice and the execution of immediate commands.  One was that she should take a glass of champagne to Mrs. Ayrton in her room.  He drank off one himself.  Mrs. Ayrton’s glass being brought back untouched, he drank that off likewise, and as he became more exhilarated, was more considerate for her, to such a degree, that when she appeared he seized her hands and only jestingly scolded her for her contempt of sound medicine, declaring, in spite of her protestations, that she was looking lovely, and so they sat down to their dinner, she with an anguished glance at the looking-glass as she sank in her chair.

“It’s not bad, after all,” said he, drenching his tasteless mouthful of half-cold meat with champagne.  “The truth is, that Clubs spoil us.  This is Spartan fare.  Come, drink with me, my dearest.  One sip.”

She was coaxed by degrees to empty a glass.  She had a gentle heart, and could not hold out long against a visible lively kindliness.  It pleased him that she should bow to him over fresh bubbles; and they went formally through the ceremony, and she smiled.  He joked and laughed and talked, and she eyed him a faint sweetness.  He perceived now that she required nothing more than the restoration of her personal pride, and setting bright eyes on her, hazarded a bold compliment.

Dahlia drooped like a yacht with idle sails struck by a sudden blast, that dips them in the salt; but she raised her face with the full bloom of a blush:  and all was plain sailing afterward.

“Has my darling seen her sister?” he asked softly.

Dahlia answered, “No,” in the same tone.

Both looked away.

“She won’t leave town without seeing you?”

“I hope—­I don’t know.  She—­she has called at our last lodgings twice.”

“Alone?”

“Yes; I think so.”

Dahlia kept her head down, replying; and his observation of her wavered uneasily.

“Why not write to her, then?”

“She will bring father.”

The sob thickened in her throat; but, alas for him who had at first, while she was on the sofa, affected to try all measures to revive her, that I must declare him to know well how certain was his mastery over her, when his manner was thoroughly kind.  He had not much fear of her relapsing at present.

“You can’t see your father?”

“No.”

“But, do.  It’s best.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Not—­” she hesitated, and clasped her hands in her lap.

“Yes, yes; I know,” said he; “but still!  You could surely see him.  You rouse suspicions that need not exist.  Try another glass, my dear.”

“No more.”