Marion Darche. F. Marion Crawford

to seek his society than to avoid it. She was never apparently tired of hearing about John's childhood and youth and she received the old man's often repeated confidences concerning his own life with an ever-renewed expression of sympathy.

      "I simply could not stand it for a day!" exclaimed Dolly occasionally. "Why, he is worse than my school children!"

      Miss Maylands could not put the case more strongly. Perhaps no one else could.

      "I like him," answered Mrs. Darche. "I know he is a bore. But then, I suppose I am a bore myself."

      "Oh, Marion!" And Dolly laughed.

      That was generally the end of the conversation. But Dolly, who was by no means altogether frivolous and had a soul, and bestowed now and then considerable attention upon its religious toilet, so to say—Dolly fancied that Papa Darche, as she called him, took the place of a baby in her friend's heart. Rather a permanent and antique baby, Dolly thought, but better than nothing for a woman who felt that she must love and take care of something helpless. She herself did not care for that sort of thing. The maternal instinct developed itself in another direction and she taught children in a kindergarten. The stupid ones tired her, as she expressed it, but then her soul came to the rescue and did its best, which was not bad. Dolly was a good girl, though she had too many "purposes" in life.

      Not many minutes after she and Vanbrugh had entered the room on the morning described in the previous chapters, luncheon was announced.

      "Tell Mr. Darche that luncheon is ready, Stubbs," said Marion, and Stubbs, gray-haired, portly, rosy-cheeked and respectful, disappeared to summon the old gentleman.

      Vanbrugh looked at Brett and both smiled, hardly knowing why. Neither of them had ever lunched at the house without hearing the same order given by the hostess. People often smile foolishly at familiar things, merely because they are familiar. Dolly and Mrs. Darche had sat down together and the two men stood side by side near a table on which a number of reviews and periodicals were neatly arranged in order. Brett idly took up one of them and held it in his hand.

      "By the bye," he said, "to-day is not Sunday. You are not ill, I hope."

      "Only lazy," answered Vanbrugh.

      "So am I," answered Brett after a moment's pause.

      There they stood in silence, apathetically glancing at the two ladies, at the fire and at the window, as two men who know each other very well are apt to do when they are waiting for luncheon. Brett chanced to look down at the magazine he held in his hand. It was bound in white paper and the back of the cover was occupied by a huge advertisement in large letters. The white margin around it was filled with calculations made in blue and red pencil, with occasional marks in green. Mechanically Brett's eyes followed the calculations. The same figure, a high one, recurred in many places, and any one with a child's knowledge of arithmetic could have seen that there was a constant attempt to make up another sum corresponding to it,—an attempt which seemed always to have failed. Brett remembered that Darche carried a pencil-case with leads of three colours in it, and he tossed the magazine upon the table as though he realised that he had been prying into another person's business. He glanced at Mrs. Darche who was still talking with Dolly, and a moment later he took up the magazine again and cautiously tore off the back of the cover, crumpled it in his hands, approached the fire and tossed it into the flames. Mrs. Darche looked up quickly.

      "What is that?" she asked.

      "Oh, nothing," answered Brett, "only a bit of paper."

      Just then Simon Darche entered the room and all rose to go in to luncheon together.

      The old gentleman shook hands with Dolly and with both the men, looking keenly into their faces, but mentioning no names. He was cheerful and ruddy, and a stranger might have expected his conversation to be enlivening. In this however, he would have been egregiously disappointed.

      "What have you been doing this morning?" asked Mrs. Darche turning to him.

      She had asked the question every day for years, whenever she had lunched at home.

      "Very busy, very busy," answered Mr. Darche.

      His hands did not tremble as he unfolded his napkin, but he seemed to bestow an extraordinary amount of attention on the exact position of the glasses before him, pushing them a little forwards and backwards and glancing at them critically until he was quite satisfied.

      "Busy, of course," he said and looked cheerfully round the table. "There is no real happiness except in hard work. If I could only make you understand that, Marion, you would be much happier. Early to bed and early to rise."

      "Makes a man stupid and closes his eyes," observed Brett, finishing the proverb in its modern form.

      "What, what? What doggerel is that?"

      "Did you never hear that?" asked Dolly, laughing. "It is from an unwritten and unpublished book—modern proverbs."

      Simon Darche shook his head and smiled feebly.

      "Dear me, dear me, I thought you were in earnest," he said.

      "So he is," said Dolly. "We may have to get up at dawn sometimes, but we are far too much in earnest to go to bed early."

      This was evidently beyond Simon Darche's comprehension and he relapsed into silence and the consumption of oysters. Mrs. Darche glanced reproachfully at Dolly as though to tell her that she should not chaff the old gentleman, and Vanbrugh came to the rescue.

      "Do you often get up at dawn, Miss Maylands?" he inquired.

      "Do I look as if I did?" retorted the young lady.

      "How in the world should I know," asked Vanbrugh. "Do I look as though I associated with people who got up at dawn?"

      Brett laughed.

      "It always amuses me to hear you and Vanbrugh talk, Miss Maylands."

      "Does it, I am so glad," said Dolly.

      "Yes, you seem perfectly incapable of saying one word to each other without chaffing."

      Old Mr. Darche had finished his oysters.

      "Yes—yes," he observed. "A pair of chaffinches."

      A moment of silence followed this appalling pun. Then Mrs. Darche laughed a little nervously, and Brett, who wished to help her, followed her example. The old gentleman himself seemed delighted with his own wit.

      "We are beginning well," said Dolly. "Puns and proverbs with the oysters. What shall we get with the fruit?"

      Vanbrugh was inclined to suggest that the dessert would probably find them in an idiot asylum, but he wisely abstained from words and tried to turn the conversation into a definite channel.

      "Did you read that book I sent you, Mrs. Darche?" he asked.

      "Yes," answered the latter, "I began to read it to my father-in-law but he did not care for it, so I am going on with it alone."

      "What book was that, my dear?" inquired the old gentleman.

      Mrs. Darche named a recent foreign novel which had been translated.

      "Oh, that thing!" exclaimed her father-in-law. "Why, it is all about Frenchmen and tea parties! Very dull. Very dull. But then a busy man like myself has very little time for such nonsense. Mr. Trehearne, I suppose I could not give you any idea of the amount of work I have to do."

      He looked at Vanbrugh as he spoke.

      "Trehearne?" Brett repeated the name in a low voice, looking at Mrs. Darche.

      "I know you are one of the busiest men alive," said Vanbrugh quietly and without betraying the slightest astonishment.

      "I should think so," said Simon Darche, "and I am very glad I am. Nothing keeps a man busy like being successful. And I may fairly say that I have been very successful—thanks to John, well—I suppose I may take a little credit to myself."

      "Indeed