speech, and still more his favourite gestures, bore evidence to that
period of his career. Instead of making direct reply to Alice's
question, he stood for a moment as if dazed; then flinging back his
body, smote his forehead with a ringing slap, and groaned '0
Heaven!'

'What's the matter?' cried the girl, not quite knowing whether to be
amused or alarmed.

But Mr. Keene was rushing from the room, and in an instant the house
door sounded loudly behind him. Alice stood disconcerted; then,
thinking she understood, laughed gaily and ran upstairs to complete
her packing. In a quarter of an hour Mr. Keene's return brought her
to the drawing-room again. The journalist was propping himself
against the mantelpiece, gasping, his arms hanging limp, his hair
disordered. As Alice approached he staggered forward, fell on one
knee, and held to her the paper she had mentioned.

'Pardon--forgive!' he panted.

'Why, where ever have you been?' exclaimed Alice.

'No matter! what are time and space? Forgive me, Miss Mutimer! I
deserve to be turned out of the house, and never stand in the light
of your countenance again.'

'But how foolish! As if it mattered all that. What a state you're
in! I'll go and get you a glass of wine.'

She ran to the dining-room, and returned with a decanter and glass