Man and Wife

'We had all this out,' he said, 'on the way here from the station. What's the good of going over the ground again?'

'You're quite right,' said Arnold, good-humoredly. 'The fact is—I'm out of sorts, this morning. My mind misgives me—I don't know why.'

'Mind?' repeated Geoffrey, in high contempt. 'It's flesh—that's what's the matter with you. You're nigh on a stone over your right weight. Mind he hanged! A man in healthy training don't know that he has got a mind. Take a turn with the dumb-bells, and a run up hill with a great-coat on. Sweat it off, Arnold! Sweat it off!'

With that excellent advice, he turned to leave the room for the third time. Fate appeared to have determined to keep him imprisoned in the library, that morning. On this occasion, it was a servant who got in the way—a servant, with a letter and a message. 'The man waits for answer.'

Geoffrey looked at the letter. It was in his brother's handwriting. He had left Julius at the junction about three hours since. What could Julius possibly have to say to him now?

He opened the letter. Julius had to announce that Fortune was favoring them already. He had heard news of Mrs. Glenarm, as soon as he reached home. She had called on his wife, during his absence in London—she had been inv ited to the house—and she had promised to accept the invitation early in the week. 'Early in the week,' Julius wrote, 'may mean to-morrow. Make your apologies to Lady Lundie; and take care not to offend her. Say that family reasons, which you hope soon to have the pleasure of confiding to her, oblige you to appeal once more to her indulgence—and come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs. Glenarm.'

Even Geoffrey was startled, when he found himself met by a sudden necessity for acting on his own decision. Anne knew where his brother lived. Suppose Anne (not knowing where else to find him) appeared at his brother's house, and claimed him in the presence of Mrs. Glenarm? He gave orders to have the messenger kept waiting, and said he would send back a written reply.

'From Craig Fernie?' asked Arnold, pointing to the letter in his friend's hand.

Geoffrey looked up with a frown. He had just opened his lips to answer that ill-timed reference to Anne, in no very friendly terms, when a voice, calling to Arnold from the lawn outside, announced the appearance of a third person in the library, and warned the two gentlemen that their private interview was at an end.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.

NEARER STILL.

BLANCHE stepped lightly into the room, through one of the open French windows.

'What are you doing here?' she said to Arnold.

'Nothing. I was just going to look for you in the garden.'

'The garden is insufferable, this morning.' Saying those words, she fanned herself with her handkerchief, and noticed Geoffrey's presence in the room with a look of very thinly-concealed annoyance at the discovery. 'Wait till I am married!' she thought. 'Mr. Delamayn will be cleverer than I take him to be, if he gets much of his friend's company then!'

'A trifle too hot—eh?' said Geoffrey, seeing her eyes fixed on him, and supposing that he was expected to say something.

Having performed that duty he walked away without waiting for a reply; and seated himself with his letter, at one of the writing-tables in the library.

'Sir Patrick is quite right about the young men of the present day,' said Blanche, turning to Arnold. 'Here is this one asks me a question, and doesn't wait for an answer. There are three more of them, out in the garden, who have been talking of nothing, for the last hour, but the pedigrees of horses and the muscles of men. When we are married, Arnold, don't present any of your male friends to me, unless they have turned fifty. What shall we do till luncheon-time? It's cool and quiet in here among the books. I want a mild excitement—and I have got absolutely nothing to do. Suppose you read me some poetry?'

'While he is here?' asked Arnold, pointing to the personified antithesis of poetry— otherwise to Geoffrey, seated with his back to them at the farther end of the library.

'Pooh!' said Blanche. 'There's only an animal in the room. We needn't mind him! '

'I say!' exclaimed Arnold. 'You're as bitter, this morning, as Sir Patrick himself. What will you say to Me when we are married if you talk in that way of my friend?'

Blanche stole her hand into Arnold's hand and gave it a little significant squeeze. 'I shall always be nice to you,' she whispered—with a look that contained a host of pretty promises in itself. Arnold returned the look (Geoffrey was unquestionably in the way!). Their eyes met tenderly (why couldn't the great awkward brute write his letters somewhere else?). With a faint little sigh, Blanche dropped resignedly into one of the comfortable arm-chairs—and asked once more for 'some poetry,' in a voice that faltered softly, and with a color that was brighter than usual.

'Whose poetry am I to read?' inquired Arnold.

'Any body's,' said Blanche. 'This is another of my impulses. I am dying for some poetry. I don't know whose poetry. And I don't know why.'

Arnold went straight to the nearest book-shelf, and took down the first volume that his hand lighted on—a solid quarto, bound in sober brown.

'Well?' asked Blanche. 'What have you found?'

Arnold opened the volume, and conscientiously read the title exactly as it stood:

'Paradise Lost. A Poem. By John Milton.'

'I have never read Milton,' said Blanche. 'Have you?'