best bits, I suspect, are those that were done in dreary places abroad."
"And why were they dreary?"
"Because they were health-resorts—where my poor mother was dying."
"Your poor mother?" the girl murmured, kindly.
"We went from place to place to help her to get better. But she never did. To the deadly Riviera (I hate it!) to the high Alps, to Algiers, and far away—a hideous journey to Colorado."
"And she isn't better?" Miss Fancourt went on.
"She died a year ago."
"Really?—like mine! Only that is far away. Some day you must tell me about your mother," she added.
Overt looked at her a moment. "What right things you say! If you say them to St. George I don't wonder he's in bondage."
"I don't know what you mean. He doesn't make speeches and professions at all—he isn't ridiculous."
"I'm afraid you consider that I am."
"No, I don't," the girl replied, rather shortly. "He understands everything."
Overt was on the point of saying jocosely: "And I don't—is that it?" But these words, before he had spoken, changed themselves into others slightly less trivial: "Do you suppose he understands his wife?"
Miss Fancourt made no direct answer to his question; but after a moment's hesitation she exclaimed: "Isn't she charming?"
"Not in the least!"
"Here he comes. Now you must know him," the girl went on. A small group of visitors had gathered at the other end of the gallery and they had been joined for
