On New Year’s Eve Miss Wendover gave one of her famous dinner-parties; famous because it was always said that her dinners were, on their scale, better than anybody else’s — yea, even that Dr. Rylance’s, although that gentleman spared no expense, and had been known to induce the French cook from the Dolphin at Southampton to come over and prepare the feast for him.

Miss Wendover’s dinner was an excuse for the bringing forth of rich stores of old china, old glass, and older silver — the accumulations of aunts and uncles for past generations, and in some part of the lady herself, who had the true spirit of a collector, that special gift which the French connoisseur calls le flair. Ida and the lady of the house worked diligently all the morning in papering and polishing these treasures; and the dinner table, with its antique silver, Derby china, heavy diamond-cut glass, and white and scarlet exotics, was a picture to gladden the eyes of Aunt Betsy’s guests.

The party consisted of Colonel and Mrs. Wendover, with their daughter Bessie, admitted to this sacred function for the first time in her young life, and duly impressed with the solemnity of the occasion; the Vicar and his wife; the new curate, an Oxford M.A., and a sprig of a good old family tree, altogether something very superior in the way of curates; Mr. and Mrs. Hildrop Havenant, the great people of a neighbouring settlement, with their eldest son, also an Oxonion; and Dr. and Miss Rylance.

‘Be sure you two girls look your best to-night,’ said Miss Wendover, as she sat before the fire with Bessie and Ida, enjoying the free and easy luxury of a substantial afternoon tea, which would enable them all to be gracefully indifferent to the more solid features of dinner, and duly on the alert, to make conversation. ‘We shall have three eligible men.’

‘How do you make three, Aunt Betsy?’ inquired her niece. ‘Of course we all know that young Hildrop Havenant is heir to nearly all the land between Havenant and Romsey; but he is such a mass of affectation that I can’t imagine anybody wanting to marry him. And as for Mr. Jardine —’

‘Is he a mass of affectation, too, Bess?’ inquired Aunt Betsy with intention, for Mr. Jardine, the curate, was supposed to have impressed the damsel’s fancy more deeply than she would care to own. ‘He is an Oxford man.’

‘There is Oxford and Oxford,’ said Bess. ‘If all the Oxford men were like young Havenant, the only course open to the rest of the world would be to burn Oxford, just as Oxford burned the martyrs.’

‘Well, we may count Mr. Jardine as an eligible, I suppose?’

‘But that only makes two. Who is your third?’ asked Bessie.

‘Dr. Rylance.’

‘Dr. Rylance an eligible?’ cried Bessie, with girlhood’s frank laughter at the absurd idea of middle age coming into the market to bid for youth. ‘Why, auntie, the man must be fifty.’

‘Five-and-forty at most, and very young-looking for his age; very polished, very well off. There are many girls who would be proud to win such a husband,’ said Miss Wendover, glancing at Ida in the firelight.

She wanted to test the girl’s temper — to find out, were it possible, whether this girl, whom she so inclined to love, tried in the fierce furnace of poverty, had acquired mercenary instincts. She had heard from Urania of that reckless speech about marrying for money, and she wanted to know how much or how little that speech had implied.

Ida was silent. She had never told anyone of Dr. Rylance’s offer. She would have deemed it dishonourable to let anyone into the secret of his humiliation — to let his little world know that he, so superior a person, could offer himself and be rejected.

‘What do you think now, Bess,’ pursued Miss Wendover; ‘would it not be rather a nice thing if Dr. Rylance were to marry Ida? We all know how much he admires her.’

‘It would be a very horrid thing!’ cried the impetuous Bess. ‘I would ever so much rather Ida married poor Brian, although they had to pig in furnished lodgings for the first ten years of their life. Crabbed age and youth cannot dwell together.’

‘But Dr. Rylance is not crabbed, and he is not old.’

‘Let him marry a lady of the same doubtful age, which seems old to me, but young to you, and then no one will find fault with him,’ said Bess, savagely. ‘I feel an inward and spiritual conviction that Ida is doomed to marry Brian Walford. The poor fellow was so hopelessly in love with her when he left this place, that, if she had not a stone inside her instead of a heart, she would have accepted him; but magno est amor et praevalebit!’ concluded Bess, with a mighty effort; ‘I’m sure I hope that’s right.’

‘I think it must be time for you to go home and dress, if you really wish to look nice to-night,’ said Ida, severely. ‘You know you generally find yourself without frilling, or something wrong, at the last moment.’

‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Bessie, starting up and upsetting the petted Persian, which had been reposing in her lap, and which now skulked off resentfully, with a swollen tail, to hide its indignation under a chair, ‘you are as bad as an oracle. I have yards and yards of frilling to sew on before I dress — my sleeves — my neck — my sweeper.’

‘Shall I run over and sew the frills on for you?’ asked Ida.

‘You! when you are going to wear that lovely pink gown. You will want hours to dress. No: Blanche must make herself useful for once in her ridiculous life. Au revoir, auntie darling. Go, lovely rose’— to Ida —‘and make yourself still lovelier in order to captivate Dr. Rylance.’

The dinner was over. It had passed without a hitch, and the gentlemen were now enjoying their claret and conversation in a comfortable semicircle in front of Miss Wendover’s roomy hearth.

The conversation was for the most part strictly local, Colonel Wendover and Mr. Hildrop Havenant leading, and the Vicar a good second; but now and then there was a brief diversion from the parish to European politics, when Dr. Rylance — who secretly abhorred parochial talk — dashed to the fore and talked with an authority which it was hard for the others to keep under. He spoke of the impending declaration of war — there is generally some such thing — as if he had been at the War Office that morning in confidential converse with the chief officials; but this was more than Squire Havenant could endure, and he flatly contradicted the physician on the strength of his morning’s correspondence. Mr. Havenant always talked of his letters as if they contained all the law and the prophets. His correspondents were high in office, unimpeachable authorities, men who had the ear of the House, or who pulled the strings of the Government.

‘I am told on the best authority that there will be no war,’ he said, swelling, or seeming to swell, as he spoke.

He was a large man, with a florid complexion and gray mutton-chop whiskers.

Dr. Rylance shrugged his shoulders and smiled blandly. It was the calm, incredulous smile with which he encountered any rival medico who was bold enough to question his treatment.

‘That is not the opinion of the War Office,’ he said quietly.

‘But it is the opinion of men who dictate to the War Office,’ replied Mr. Havenant.

‘We couldn’t have a better place for the working men’s club than old Parker’s cottage,’ said the Vicar, addressing himself to Colonel Wendover.

‘If Russia advances a foot farther, there must be war in Beloochistan,’ said Dr. Rylance; ‘and if England is blind to the exigencies of the situation, I should like to know how you are going to get your troops through the Bolan Pass.’

‘A single line to Romsey would send up the value of land fifty per cent,’ said the Colonel, who cared much more about Hampshire than Hindostan, although the best years of his life had been spent under Indian skies.

Hildrop Havenant pricked up his ears, and forgot all about the War Office.

‘If the railway company had the pluck they ought to get that Bill through next Session,’ he said, meaning a Bill for a loop between Winchester and Romsey.

While the elder gentlemen prosed over their wine the two younger men had found their way, first to the garden, for a cigar under the frosty moon, then back to Miss Wendover’s pretty drawing room, where Ida was playing Schumann’s ‘Tr?umerei’ at one end of the room with Bessie for her only audience, while Miss By lance, Miss Wendover, and the three matrons made a stately group around and about the fire-place.

Urania was providing the greater part of the conversation. She had spent a delightful fortnight in Cavendish Square at the end of November, and had been everywhere and seen everything — winter exhibitions — new plays.

‘I had no idea there could be so many nice people in town out of the season,’ she said with a grand air. ‘But then my father knows all the nicest people; he cultivates no Philistines.’

The Vicar’s wife required to have this last remark explained to her. She only knew the Philistines of Scripture, an unfortunate people who seem always to have been in the wrong.

‘And you saw some good pictures?’ inquired Aunt Betsy.

‘A few good ones and acres of daubs,’ replied Urania. ‘Why will so many people paint? There are pictures which are an affliction to the eye — an outrage upon common sense. Instead of a huge gallery lined from floor to ceiling with commonplace, why cannot we have a Temple with a single Watts, or Burne Jones, or Dante Bossetti, which one could go in and worship quietly in a subdued light?’

‘That is a horridly expensive way of seeing pictures,’ said the Vicar’s wife; ‘I hate paying a shilling for seeing a single picture. If it is ever so good one feels one has had so little for one’s money. Now at the Academy there are always at least fifty pictures which delight me.’

‘You must be very easy to please,’ said Urania.

‘I am,’ replied the Vicar’s wife, curtly, ‘and that is one of the blessings for which I am thankful to God. I hate your nil admiraris,’ added the lady, as if it were the name of a species.

After this Urania became suddenly interested in Schumann, and glided across the room to see what the music meant.

‘That is very sweet,’ she murmured, sinking into a seat by Bessie; ‘classical, of course?’

‘Schumann,’ answered Ida, briefly.

‘I thought so. It has that delicious vagueness one only finds in German music — a half-developed meaning — leaving wide horizons of melodious uncertainty.’

This was a conversational style which Miss Rylance had cultivated since her entrance into the small world of Kingthorpe, and the larger world of Cavendish Square, as a grown-up young woman. She had seen a good deal of a semi-artistic, quasi-literary circle, in which her father was the medical oracle, attending actresses and singers without any more substantial guerdon than free admittance to the best theatres on the best nights; prescribing for newspaper-men and literary lions, who sang his praises wherever they went.

Urania had fallen at once into all the tricks and manners of the new school. She had taken to short waists and broad sashes, and a style of drapery which accentuated the elegant slimness of her figure. She affected out-of-the-way colours, and quaint combinations — pale pinks and olive greens, tawny yellow and faded russet — and bought her gowns at a Japanese warehouse, where limp lengths of flimsy cashmere were mixed in artistic confusion with sixpenny teapots and paper umbrellas. In a word, Miss Rylance had become a disciple of the peacock-feather school of art, and affected to despise every other development of intellect, or beauty.

This was the first time that she and Ida had met since the latter’s return to Kingthorpe, except indeed for briefest greetings in the churchyard after morning service. Ida had not yet upbraided her for the trick of which she was the author and originator, but Urania was in no wise grateful for this forbearance. She had acted with deliberate maliciousness; and she wanted to know that her malice had given pain. The whole thing was a failure if it had not hurt the girl who had been audacious enough to outshine Miss Rylance, and to fascinate Miss Rylance’s father. Urania had no idea that the physician had offered himself and his two houses to Ida Palliser, nay, had even pledged himself to sacrifice his daughter at the shrine of his new love. She knew that he admired Miss Palliser more than he had ever admired anyone else within her knowledge, and this was more than enough to make Ida hateful.

Ida was particularly obnoxious this evening, in that pale pink cashmere gown, with a falling collar of fine old Brussels point, a Christmas gift from Mrs. Wendover. The gown might not be the highest development of the Grosvenor Gallery school, but it was at once picturesque and becoming, and Ida was looking her loveliest.

‘Why have you never come to see me since your return?’ inquired Urania, with languid graciousness.

‘I did not think you wanted me,’ Ida answered, coolly.

‘I am always glad to see my friends. I stop at home on Thursday afternoons on purpose; but perhaps you have not quite forgiven Bess and me for that little bit of fun we indulged in last September,’ said Urania.

‘I have quite forgiven Bess her share of the joke,’ answered Ida, scanning Miss Rylance’s smiling countenance with dark, scornful eyes, ‘because I know she had no idea of giving me pain.’

‘But won’t you forgive me too? Are you going to leave me out in the cold?’

‘I don’t think you care a straw whether I forgive or do not forgive you. You wanted to wound me — to humiliate me — and you succeeded — to a certain degree. But you see I have survived the humiliation. You did not hurt me quite so much as you intended, perhaps.’

‘What a too absurd view to take of the thing!’ cried Urania, with an injured air. ‘An innocent practical joke, not involving harm of any kind; a little girlish prank played on the spur of the moment. I thought you were more sensible than to be offended — much less seriously angry — at any such nonsense.’

Ida contemplated her enemy silently for a few moments, as her hands wandered softly through one of those Kinder-scenen which she knew by heart.

‘If I am mistaken in your motives it is I who have to apologize,’ she s............