Marion Darche. F. Marion Crawford

had been a friend of his youth and who had been dead some years, was the first sign of mental decay. From Mrs. Darche's calm manner she inferred that this was not the first time he had done something of the kind, and her mind went back quickly to her conversation with Vanbrugh that morning in Gramercy Park. Simon Darche was still talking.

      "The interests of the Company are becoming positively gigantic, and there seems to be no end to the fresh issues that are possible, though none of them have been brought to me to sign yet."

      Brett looked quickly at Vanbrugh, but the latter was imperturbable.

      At that moment the door opened and John Darche entered the dining-room. His face was a little paler than usual and he seemed tired. Mrs. Darche looked at him in surprise and her father-in-law smiled as he always did when he saw his son. Every one present said something more or less incomprehensible by way of greeting. The new-comer shook hands with Dolly Maylands, nodded to the rest and sat down in the place which was always reserved for him opposite his wife.

      "I had nothing particular to do, so I came home to luncheon," he said, by way of explaining his unexpected appearance.

      "I am so glad."

      "Nothing particular to do!" exclaimed the old gentleman momentarily surprised into his senses.

      "Nothing requiring my presence," answered John Darche gravely. "I was down town early this morning and cleared off everything. I shall ride this afternoon."

      "Quite right, quite right, my boy!" put in Simon Darche. "You should take care of your health. You have been doing too much of late. I suppose," he added, looking about at the others, "that there is not a man alive who has my son's power of work."

      "You do work dreadfully hard, John," said Mrs. Darche.

      "But then," said her father-in-law with evident pride, "John leads such a regular life. He does not drink, he does not smoke, he does not sit up late at night—altogether, I must say that he takes better care of himself than I ever did. And that is the reason," continued the old gentleman with increasing animation, "that he has accomplished so much. If some of you young men would follow his example you would do a great deal more in the world. Regular hours, regular meals, no cocktails—oh I daresay if I had never smoked a cigar in my life I should be good for another fifty years. John will live to be a hundred."

      "Let us hope so," said Vanbrugh blandly.

      "What is this particular disagreeable thing you have given me to eat?" inquired John looking at his wife.

      Mrs. Darche looked up in surprise. The remark was quite in keeping with his usual manner, but it was very unlike him to notice anything that was put before him.

      "I believe it is a shad," she said.

      "Yes, I suppose it is," answered John. "The thing has bones in it. Give me something else, Stubbs."

      He got something else to eat and relapsed into silence. The remainder of the luncheon was not gay, for his coming had chilled even Dolly's good spirits. Brett and Vanbrugh did their best to sustain the conversation, but the latter felt more certain than ever that something serious was the matter. Old Simon Darche meandered on, interspersing his praise of his son and his boasts of the prosperity of the Company with stale proverbs and atrocious puns. Almost as soon as the meal was over the few guests departed with that unpleasant sense of unsatisfied moral appetite which people have when they have expected to enjoy being together and have been disappointed.

      When every one was gone John Darche remained in the drawing-room with his wife. He sat down in his chair like a man over-tired with hard work, and something like a sigh escaped him. Mrs. Darche pushed a small table to his side, laid his papers upon it and sat down opposite him. A long silence followed. From time to time she looked up at her husband as though she expected him to say something, but he did not open his lips, though he often stared at her for several minutes together. His unwinking blue eyes faced the light as he looked at her, and their expression was disagreeable to her, so that she lowered her own rather than encounter it.

      "Are things growing worse, John?" at last she asked him.

      "Worse? What do you mean?"

      "You told me some time ago that you were anxious. I thought that perhaps you might be in some trouble."

      John did not answer at once but looked at her as though he did not see her, took up a paper and glanced absently over the columns of advertisements.

      "Oh no," he said at last, as though her question had annoyed him. "There is nothing wrong, nothing whatever." Again a silence followed. Mrs. Darche went to her writing-table and began to write a note. John did not move.

      "Marion," said he at last, "has any one been talking to you about my affairs?"

      "No indeed," answered Mrs. Darche in evident surprise at the question, but with such ready frankness that he could not doubt her.

      "No," he repeated. "I see that no one has. I only asked because people are always so ready to talk about what they cannot understand, and are generally so perfectly certain about what they do not know. I thought Dolly Maylands might have been chattering."

      "Dolly does not talk about you, John."

      "Oh! I wonder why not. Does she dislike me especially—I mean more than most people—more than you do, for instance?"

      "John!"

      "My dear, do not imagine that it grieves me, though it certainly does not make life more agreeable to be disliked. On the whole, I hardly know which I prefer—my father's perpetual outspoken praise, or your dutiful and wifely hatred."