When strawberry pottles are common and cheap
Ere elms be black or limes be sere,
When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
Then comes in the sweet o\' the year!
Andrew Lang.

The second week in June saw Frank back in his old quarters above the auctioneer\'s. He had arrived late in the evening, and put off going to see the Lorimers till the first thing the next day. It was some time before business hours when he rang at Number 20B, and was ushered by Matilda into the studio, where he found Phyllis engaged in a rather perfunctory wielding of a feather-duster.

She was looking distractingly pretty, as[Pg 182] he perceived when she turned to greet him. Her close-fitting black dress, with the spray of tuberose at the throat, and the great holland apron with its braided bib suited her to perfection; the sober tints setting off to advantage the delicate tones of her complexion, which in these days was more wonderfully pink and white than ever.

"And how are your sisters? I needn\'t ask how you are?" cried Frank, who in the earlier stages of their acquaintance had been rather surprised at himself for not falling desperately in love with Phyllis Lorimer.

"Everybody is flourishing," she answered, leaning against the little mantelshelf in the waiting-room, and looking down upon Frank\'s sunburnt, uplifted face.

A look of mischief flashed into her eyes as she added, "There is a great piece of news."

Frank grasped the back of the frail red chair on which he sat astride in a manner rather dangerous to its well-being, and said abruptly, "Well, what is it?"

"One of us is going to be married."

"Oh!" said Frank, with a sort of gasp, which was not lost on his interlocutor.

"I am not going to tell you which it is. You must guess," went on Phyllis, looking[Pg 183] down upon him demurely from under her drooped lids, while a fine smile played about her lips.

"Oh, I\'ll begin at the beginning," said poor Frank, with rather strained cheerfulness. "Is it Miss Gertrude?"

Phyllis played a moment with the feather-duster, then answered slowly, "You must guess again."

"Is it Miss Lucy?" (with a jerk.)

A pause. "No," said Phyllis, at last.

Frank sprang to his feet with a beaming countenance and caught both her hands with unfeigned cordiality. "Then it is you, Miss Phyllis, that I have to congratulate."

Her eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth as she answered ruefully, "No, indeed, Mr. Jermyn!"

Frank dropped her hands, wrinkling his brows in perplexity, then a light dawned on him suddenly, and was reflected in his expressive countenance.

"It must be Fan!" He forgot the prefix in his astonishment.

Phyllis nodded. "But you musn\'t look so surprised," she said, taking a chair beside him. "Why shouldn\'t poor old Fan be married as well as other people?"

[Pg 184]

"Of course; how stupid of me not to think of it before," said Frank, vaguely.

"It is quite a romance," went on Phyllis; "she and Mr. Marsh wanted to be married ages and ages ago. But he was too poor, and went to Australia. Now he is well off, and has come back to marry Fan, like a person in a book. A touching tale of young love, is it not?"

"Yes; I think it a very touching and pretty story," said Frank, severely ignoring the note of irony in her voice.

He had all a man\'s dislike to hearing a woman talk cynically of sentiment; that should be exclusively a masculine privilege.

"Perhaps," said Phyllis, "it takes the bloom off it a little, that Edward Marsh married on the way out. But his wife died last year, so it is all right."

Frank burst out laughing, Phyllis joining him. A minute later Gertrude and Lucy came in and confirmed the wonderful news; and the four young people stood gossiping, till the sound of the studio bell reminded them that the day\'s work had begun.

Jermyn came in, by invitation, to supper that night, and was introduced to the new arrival, a big, burly man of middle age,[Pg 185] whose forest of black beard afforded only very occasional glimpses of his face.

As for Fanny, it was touching to see how this faded flower had revived in the sunshine. The little superannuated airs and graces had come boldly into play; and Edward Marsh, who was a simple soul, accepted them as the proper expression of feminine sweetness.

So she curled her little finger and put her head on one side with all the vigour that assurance of success will give to any performance; gave vent to her most illogical statements in her most mincing tones, uncontradicted and undisturbed; in short, took advantage to the full of her sojourn (to q............