A Change of Air. Hope Anthony

alone. Fancy Denborough taking on itself to disapprove of Dale Bannister! It's too rich!"

      Ethel sighed. Denborough's disapproval was no doubt a matter of indifference to Dale Bannister: it meant loss of bread and butter to James Roberts and his house.

      Meanwhile Dale Bannister, all unconscious of the dread determinations of the Vicar, pursued his way in cheerful unconcern. People came and went. Arthur Angell returned to his haunts rather dissatisfied with the quiet of Littlehill, but rejoicing to have found in the Doctor one thorough-going believer. Mrs. Hodge, her daughter, and Philip Hume seemed to be permanent parts of the household. Riding was their chief amusement. They would pass down High Street, Dale on his ancient mare, with Nellie and Philip by his side, laughing and talking merrily, Dale's own voice being very audible as he pointed out, with amusement a trifle too obvious to be polite, what struck him as remarkable in Denborough ways of life.

      Philip, however, whom Mr. Delane had described to his wife as the only apparently sane person at Littlehill, was rather uneasy in his mind about Roberts.

      "You'll get that fellow disliked, Dale," he said one morning, "if you don't take care."

      "I? What have I to do with it?" asked Dale.

      "They'll think him unsafe, if they see him with you."

      "He needn't come unless he likes. He's not a bad fellow, only he takes everything so precious seriously."

      "He thinks you do, judging by your books."

      "Oh, I do by fits. By the way, I have a fit now! Behold, I will write! Nellie! Where's Nellie?"

      Nellie Fane came at his call.

      "Sit down just opposite me, and look at me. I am going to write. The editor of the Cynosure begs for twenty lines – no more; twenty lines – fifty pounds! Now, Nellie, inspire me, and you shall have a new hat out of it. No, look at me!"

      Nellie sat down and gazed at him, obediently.

      "Two pound ten a line; not bad for a young 'un," he pursued. "They say Byron wrote on gin and water. I write on your eyes, Nellie – much better."

      "You're not writing at all – only talking nonsense."

      "I'm just beginning."

      "Look here, Dale, why don't you keep the Doctor – " began Philip.

      "Oh, hang the Doctor! I'd just got an idea. Look at me, Nellie!"

      Philip shrugged his shoulders, and Dr. Roberts dropped out of discussion.

      The twenty lines were written, though they were never considered one of his masterpieces, then Dale rose with a sigh of relief.

      "Now for lunch, and then I'm going to return Mr. Delane's call."

      "I thought we were to ride," said Nellie disappointedly.

      "Well, won't you come?"

      "Don't be absurd!"

      "Mightn't she come, Phil?"

      "Mrs. Delane has not called, has she?" inquired Philip, as though for information.

      "Of course I shan't go, Dale. You must go alone."

      "What a nuisance! I shall have to walk. I daren't trust myself to that animal alone."

      After luncheon he started, walking by the same way by which Mr. Delane had come.

      He reached the lodge of the Grange; a courtesying child held open the gate, and he passed along under the immemorial elms, returning a cheery good-day to the gardeners, who paused in their work to touch their hats with friendly deference. The deference was wrong, of course, but the friendliness pleased him, and even the deference seemed somehow in keeping with the elms and with the sturdy old red-brick mansion, with its coat of arms and defiant Norman motto over the principal door. Littlehill was a pleasant house, but it had none of the ancient dignity of Dirkham, and Dale's quick brain was suddenly struck with a new understanding of how such places bred the men they did. He had had a fancy for a stay in the country; it would amuse him, he thought, to study country life; that was the meaning of his coming to Littlehill. Well, Dirkham summed up one side of country life, and he would be glad to study it.

      Mr. Delane was not at home – he had gone to Petty Sessions; and Dale, with regret, for he wanted to see the inside of the house, left his name – as usual he had forgotten to bring a card – and turned away. As he turned, a pony carriage drew up and a girl jumped out. Dale drew back to let her pass, raising his hat. The servant said a word to her, and when he had gone some ten or fifteen yards, he heard his name called.

      "Oh, Mr. Bannister, do come in! I expect papa back every minute, and he will be so sorry to miss you. Mamma is up in London; but I hope you'll come in."

      Dale had no idea of refusing the invitation given so cordially. He had been sorry to go away before, and the sight of Janet Delane made him more reluctant still. He followed her into the oak-paneled hall, hung with pictures of dead Delanes and furnished with couches and easy-chairs.

      "Well," she said, after tea was brought, "and what do you think of us?"

      "I have not seen very much of you yet."

      "As far as you have gone? And be candid."

      "You are very restful."

      She made a little grimace.

      "You mean very slow?"

      "Indeed I don't! I think you very interesting."

      "You find us interesting, but slow. Yes, you meant that, Mr. Bannister, and it's not kind."

      "Have your revenge by telling me what you think of me."

      "Oh, we find you interesting, too. We're all talking about you."

      "And slow?"

      "No, certainly not slow," she said, with a smile and a glance: the glance should be described, if it were describable, but it was not.

      Dale, however, understood it, for he replied, laughing:

      "They've been prejudicing you against me."

      "I don't despair of you. I think you may be reformed. But I'm afraid you're very bad just now."

      "Why do you think that? From what your father said?"

      "Partly. Partly also because Colonel Smith and Tora – do you know them? – are so enthusiastic about you."

      "Is that a bad sign?"

      "Terrible. They are quite revolutionary. So are you, aren't you?"

      "Not in private life."

      "But of course," she asked, with serious eyes, "you believe what you write?"

      "Well, I do; but you pay writers a compliment by saying 'of course.'"

      "Oh, I hope not! Anything is better than insincerity."

      "Even my opinions?"

      "Yes. Opinions may be changed, but not natures, you know."

      She was still looking at him with serious, inquiring eyes. The eyes were very fine eyes. Perhaps that was the reason why Dale thought the last remark so excellent. He said nothing, and she went on:

      "People who are clever and – and great, you know, ought to be so careful that they are right, oughtn't they?"

      "Oh, a rhymer rhymes as the fit takes him," answered he, with affected modesty.

      "I wouldn't believe that of you. You wouldn't misuse your powers like that."

      "You have read my poetry?"

      "Some of it." She paused and added, with a little blush for her companion: "There was some papa would not let me read."

      A man may not unreasonably write what a young girl's father may very reasonably not like her to read. Nevertheless, Dale Bannister felt rather uncomfortable.

      "Those were the shocking political ones, I suppose?" he asked.

      "No; I read most of those. These were against religion and – "

      "Well?"

      "Morality, papa said," she answered, with