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tired of your wife.”

      “She is forty-two, and I am thirty-five; and I have been married to her for thirteen years. You know all that—and you only suspect I am tired of her. Bless your innocence! Have you any thing more to say?”

      “If you force me to it, I take the freedom of an old friend, and I say you are not treating her fairly. It’s nearly two years since you broke up your establishment abroad, and came to England on your father’s death. With the exception of myself, and one or two other friends of former days, you have presented your wife to nobody. Your new position has smoothed the way for you into the best society. You never take your wife with you. You go out as if you were a single man. I have reason to know that you are actually believed to be a single man, among these new acquaintances of yours, in more than one quarter. Forgive me for speaking my mind bluntly—I say what I think. It’s unworthy of you to keep your wife buried here, as if you were ashamed of her.”

      “I am ashamed of her.”

      “Vanborough!”

      “Wait a little! you are not to have it all your own way, my good fellow. What are the facts? Thirteen years ago I fell in love with a handsome public singer, and married her. My father was angry with me; and I had to go and live with her abroad. It didn’t matter, abroad. My father forgave me on his death-bed, and I had to bring her home again. It does matter, at home. I find myself, with a great career opening before me, tied to a woman whose relations are (as you well know) the lowest of the low. A woman without the slightest distinction of manner, or the slightest aspiration beyond her nursery and her kitchen, her piano and her books. Is that a wife who can help me to make my place in society?—who can smooth my way through social obstacles and political obstacles, to the House of Lords? By Jupiter! if ever there was a woman to be ‘buried’ (as you call it), that woman is my wife. And, what’s more, if you want the truth, it’s because I can’t bury her here that I’m going to leave this house. She has got a cursed knack of making acquaintances wherever she goes. She’ll have a circle of friends about her if I leave her in this neighborhood much longer. Friends who remember her as the famous opera-singer. Friends who will see her swindling scoundrel of a father (when my back is turned) coming drunk to the door to borrow money of her! I tell you, my marriage has wrecked my prospects. It’s no use talking to me of my wife’s virtues. She is a millstone round my neck, with all her virtues. If I had not been a born idiot I should have waited, and married a woman who would have been of some use to me; a woman with high connections—”

      Mr. Kendrew touched his host’s arm, and suddenly interrupted him.

      “To come to the point,” he said—“a woman like Lady Jane Parnell.”

      Mr. Vanborough started. His eyes fell, for the first time, before the eyes of his friend.

      “What do you know about Lady Jane?” he asked.

      “Nothing. I don’t move in Lady Jane’s world—but I do go sometimes to the opera. I saw you with her last night in her box; and I heard what was said in the stalls near me. You were openly spoken of as the favored man who was singled out from the rest by Lady Jane. Imagine what would happen if your wife heard that! You are wrong, Vanborough—you are in every way wrong. You alarm, you distress, you disappoint me. I never sought this explanation—but now it has come, I won’t shrink from it. Reconsider your conduct; reconsider what you have said to me—or you count me no longer among your friends. No! I want no farther talk about it now. We are both getting hot—we may end in saying what had better have been left unsaid. Once more, let us change the subject. You wrote me word that you wanted me here to-day, because you needed my advice on a matter of some importance. What is it?”

      Silence followed that question. Mr. Vanborough’s face betrayed signs of embarrassment. He poured himself out another glass of wine, and drank it at a draught before he replied.

      “It’s not so easy to tell you what I want,” he said, “after the tone you have taken with me about my wife.”

      Mr. Kendrew looked surprised.

      “Is Mrs. Vanborough concerned in the matter?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Does she know about it?”

      “No.”

      “Have you kept the thing a secret out of regard for her?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have I any right to advise on it?”

      “You have the right of an old friend.”

      “Then, why not tell me frankly what it is?”

      There was another moment of embarrassment on Mr. Vanborough’s part.

      “It will come better,” he answered, “from a third person, whom I expect here every minute. He is in possession of all the facts—and he is better able to state them than I am.”

      “Who is the person?”

      “My friend, Delamayn.”

      “Your lawyer?”

      “Yes—the junior partner in the firm of Delamayn, Hawke, and Delamayn. Do you know him?”

      “I am acquainted with him. His wife’s family were friends of mine before he married. I don’t like him.”

      “You’re rather hard to please to-day! Delamayn is a rising man, if ever there was one yet. A man with a career before him, and with courage enough to pursue it. He is going to leave the Firm, and try his luck at the Bar. Every body says he will do great things. What’s your objection to him?”

      “I have no objection whatever. We meet with people occasionally whom we dislike without knowing why. Without knowing why, I dislike Mr. Delamayn.”

      “Whatever you do you must put up with him this evening. He will be here directly.”

      He was there at that moment. The servant opened the door, and announced—“Mr. Delamayn.”

      III.

      Externally speaking, the rising solicitor, who was going to try his luck at the Bar, looked like a man who was going to succeed. His hard, hairless face, his watchful gray eyes, his thin, resolute lips, said plainly, in so many words, “I mean to get on in the world; and, if you are in my way, I mean to get on at your expense.” Mr. Delamayn was habitually polite to every body—but he had never been known to say one unnecessary word to his dearest friend. A man of rare ability; a man of unblemished honor (as the code of the world goes); but not a man to be taken familiarly by the hand. You would never have borrowed money of him—but you would have trusted him with untold gold. Involved in private and personal troubles, you would have hesitated at asking him to help you. Involved in public and producible troubles, you would have said, Here is my man. Sure to push his way—nobody could look at him and doubt it—sure to push his way.

      “Kendrew is an old friend of mine,” said Mr. Vanborough, addressing himself to the lawyer. “Whatever you have to say to me you may say before him. Will you have some wine?”

      “No—thank you.”

      “Have you brought any news?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have you got the written opinions of the two barristers?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “ ‘Because nothing of the sort is necessary. If the facts of the case are correctly stated there is not the slightest doubt about the law.”

      With that reply Mr. Delamayn took a written paper from his pocket, and spread it out on the table before him.

      “What is that?” asked Mr. Vanborough.

      “The case relating to your marriage.”

      Mr. Kendrew started, and

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