on a tray. Mr. Keene had sunk upon a settee, one arm hanging over
the back, his eyes closed.

'You have pardoned me?' he murmured, regarding her with weary
rapture.

'I don't see what there is to pardon. Do drink a glass of wine!
Shall I pour it out for you?'

'Drink and service for the gods!'

'Do you mean the people in the gallery?' Alice asked roguishly,
recalling a term in which Mr. Keene had instructed her at their
latest visit to the theatre.

'You are as witty as you are beautiful!' he sighed, taking the glass
and draining it. Alice turned away to the fire; decidedly Mr. Keene
was in a gallant mood this evening; hitherto his compliments had
been far more guarded.

They began to converse in a more terrestrial manner. Alice wanted to
know whom she was likely to meet at Wanley; and Mr. Keene, in a
light way, sketched for her the Waltham family. She became
thoughtful whilst he was describing Adela Waltham, and subsequently
recurred several times to that young lady. The journalist allowed
himself to enter into detail, and Alice almost ceased talking.

It drew on to half-past nine. Mr. Keene never exceeded discretion in
the hours of his visits. He looked at his watch and rose.