plead in his favor, that he cared with all his strength for truth. Marian, on the contrary, was quite indifferent to it. Stephen's angry sentence on her conduct had awakened no echo in her contracted soul.
The reader has now an adequate conception of the feelings with which these two old friends found themselves face to face. It is needful to add, however, that the lapse of time had very much diminished the force of those feelings. A woman, it seems to me, ought to desire no easier company, none less embarrassed or embarrassing, than a disenchanted lover; premising, of course, that the process of disenchantment is thoroughly complete, and that some time has elapsed since its completion.
Marian herself was perfectly at her ease. She had not retained her equanimity—her philosophy, one might almost call it—during that painful last interview, to go and lose it now. She had no ill feeling toward her old lover. His last words had been—like all words in Marian's estimation—a mere façon de parler. Miss Everett was in so perfect a good humor during these last days of her maidenhood that, there was nothing in the past that she could not have forgiven.
She blushed a little at the emphasis of her companion's remark; but she was not discountenanced. She summoned up her good humor. "The truth is, Mr. Baxter," she said, "I feel at the present moment on perfect good terms with the world; I see everything en rose; the past as well as the future."
"I, too, am on very good terms with the world," said Baxter, "and my heart is quite reconciled to what you call the past. But, nevertheless, it's very disagreeable to me to think about it."
"Ah then," said Miss Everett, with great sweetness, "I'm afraid you're not reconciled."
Baxter laughed—so loud that Miss Everett looked about at her father. But Mr. Everett still slept the sleep of gentility. "I've no doubt," said the painter, "that I'm far from being so good a Christian as you. But I assure you I'm very glad to see you again."
"You've but to say the word and we're friends," said Marian.
"We were very foolish to have attempted to be anything else."
"'Foolish,' yes. But it was a pretty folly."
"Ah no, Miss Everett. I'm an artist, and I claim a right of property in the word 'pretty.' You mustn't stick it in there. Nothing could be pretty which had such an ugly termination. It was all false."
"Well—as you will. What have you been doing since we parted?"
"Travelling and working. I've made great progress in my trade. Shortly before I came home I became engaged."
"Engaged?—à la bonne heure. Is she good?—is she pretty?"
