You know better! I was sane enough! But mad, or sane, or—or whatever I
was, I shall never think the same of myself again, never feel quite the
same again. And to-day I’m to forgive you for it! No, if you came to me
and told me that you’d just saved the life of some one dear to me, I
couldn’t forgive you for last night. I couldn’t! No woman could!
[OLIVE _walks away and stands, looking out into the garden_.
OLIVE.
[_After a pause, speaking in a hard voice._] Excuse me for saying so,
Mrs. Fraser—but I think you regard your share in the affair of last
night more as a schoolgirl would regard it, than as a woman; rather
sentimentally, in fact.
THEOPHILA.
Thank God, I’m able to do _that_! Sentimentally? Well, ninety-nine women
out of a hundred are kept fresh and sweet by nothing better than mere
sentiment. [_Sitting upon the settee, a little faintly._] Where’s ’Tina?
[OLIVE _turns and comes to her; she is wiping the tears from
her eyes_.
OLIVE.
You know, if you wished to have your revenge on me, you have it.
THEOPHILA.
Revenge? I?
OLIVE.
[_Turning from_ THEOPHILA, _her hand playing with the arm of the
chair_.] The services I thought you would allow me to render you are the
only means by which I could hope to get my husband to overlook my
behaviour of last night. He won’t speak to me to-day.
THEOPHILA.
I’m sorry.
OLIVE.
After what has happened my one hold on him is through the reparation I
could make you. And now—and now—you—— [_Throwing herself into the chair,
crying._] Oh, it’s like begging to you!
THEOPHILA.
Notwithstanding—all you’ve done—you’re anxious to make it up with your
husband, aren’t you?
OLIVE.
[_In a whisper._] You needn’t ask; you’ve heard all about it.
THEOPHILA.
Do you think that, with your nature, you could ever be happy with him,
and make him happy?
OLIVE.
I—I don’t—think of that.
THEOPHILA.
Well, I can’t say anything more than—I’m sorry.
[OLIVE _rises, and, with faltering steps, comes to her_.
OLIVE.
Excuse me being so persistent. [_Piteously._] You won’t accept my help?
[THEOPHILA, _leaning back with closed eyes, shakes her head._] You won’t
even—try?
THEOPHILA.
[_Faintly, almost inaudibly._] It would be of no use; I couldn’t.
OLIVE.
[_Drawing a long breath, her arms falling by her side._] Ah!
THEOPHILA.
I’m tired. Tell my sister——
OLIVE.
[_Goes to the upper door, opens it, and looks out._] Oh, Quaife, where
is Miss Emptage?
QUAIFE.
[_Out of sight._] In the dining-room, ma’am. Shall I——?
OLIVE.
[_Closing the door._] No, thank you. [_She goes to the dining-room door,
and opens it slightly, without withdrawing the_ portière.] Miss Emptage!
JUSTINA.
[_From the dining-room._] Here!
OLIVE.
Your sister wishes to return to her room.
[OLIVE _walks away and stands outside the window, as_
JUSTINA _enters and goes to_ THEOPHILA.
JUSTINA.
[_Raising_ THEOPHILA.] Where’s aunt? Why have they left you alone?
THEOPHILA.
I asked them to.
JUSTINA.
[_Lowering her voice._] With _her_?
THEOPHILA.
Yes.
JUSTINA.
Tell me——!
THEOPHILA.
By-and-bye. Take me away. [OLIVE _disappears_.
JUSTINA.
[_Walking with_ THEOPHILA _towards the upper door_.] Oh, we’ve had such
a time in there! Uncle Fletcher’s been boring our heads off on the
subject of the blessings of Arbitration; and at last, Jack, who is in a
vile temper, almost jumped down his throat.
[_They go out, whereupon_ JOHN _is seen to slightly push
aside the portière and peep into the room. Satisfied
that the room is empty, he enters quickly, closes the
door behind him emphatically, and throws himself on to
the settee with a groan of weariness._ OLIVE _returns;
she is about to pass the window, but seeing_ JOHN _she
enters quietly, takes a chair and sits. They remain
looking at each other for a little while without
speaking._
OLIVE.
Good morning, John—well, afternoon.
JOHN.
Er—Have you lunched?
OLIVE.
No.
JOHN.
[_Looking towards the dining-room door._] It’s in there.
OLIVE.
[_Drily._] Thanks.
JOHN.
I—I’m sorry I can’t offer to wait on you——
OLIVE.
Oh, pray don’t——!
JOHN.
But Portwood is still eating. I’ve been rude to him.
OLIVE.
Indeed?
JOHN.
[_Rising and walking about._] I believe all these people will drive me
crazy! I don’t know where to get to for them.
OLIVE.
You are in your own house. Need you seek to avoid any of them?
JOHN.
Well, I’m not particularly desirous, for instance, of another encounter
with Mr. Fraser.
OLIVE.
Another. Have you——?
JOHN.
Yes. I’ve been rude to him.
OLIVE.
Oh! Mrs. Cloys——?
JOHN.
She treats me as a schoolmistress would treat a very small boy in
disgrace.
OLIVE.
Miss Emptage——!
JOHN.
Lectures me and patronises me till my blood curdles. Just now I was
almost—well, I hope not——
OLIVE.
Rude to her?
JOHN.
Yes. And then this maddening old man——? I can’t endure it! Even my
servants——
OLIVE.
Servants?
JOHN.
A minute or two ago I was trying to escape from the dining-room by
passing through the kitchen, and I came upon my cook and Mrs. Fraser’s
maid discussing me over a bowl of chicken broth. Mrs. Quaife—my cook——!
I heard her distinctly! “I never thought Mr. Allingham was that sort of
a gentleman,” she said.
OLIVE.
_What_ sort of a gentleman?
JOHN.
I don’t know. I got away.
OLIVE.
H’m, I think I should have been rude to _her_.
JOHN.
And there are two more relatives of Mrs. Fraser’s to arrive yet.
[_Throwing himself into a chair._] The boy has gone to town to fetch the
mother. The mother!
OLIVE.
[_Rising and walking towards the door._] At any rate, I can rid you of
one unwelcome guest. [_He looks up at her._] I am going, John, directly.
JOHN.
Going home?
OLIVE.
Going back to my flat.
JOHN.
[_Rising._] Then there is no longer any necessity for me to stick in
this wretched cottage.
OLIVE.
I’m sorry to have been the cause——
JOHN.
Of course, I could not leave you here among your—your——
OLIVE.
Enemies.
JOHN.
Well, hardly friends. Then Mrs. Fraser is well enough to travel?
OLIVE.
I don’t know, I’m sure.
JOHN.
You’ve relinquished your intention of devoting yourself to her?
OLIVE.
No, I haven’t relinquished it. Mrs. Fraser will have nothing to do with
me.
JOHN.
She has said so?
OLIVE.
[_Sitting upon the settee._] Oh, yes, she has said so.
JOHN.
What reason does she give?
OLIVE.
She will not receive help from the woman who—who brought that
humiliation on her last night. I believe, if she was starving, she
wouldn’t take a crust from my hand.
JOHN.
She returns to her husband, I suppose?
OLIVE.
I think not. She is in the mood to accept nothing from anybody.
JOHN.
[_Sitting with his head bowed._] Wounded—wounded.
OLIVE.
[_With a slight shrug of the shoulders._] She’s a sentimental, romantic
little person, I find. Well——!
JOHN.
Ha, we didn’t calculate for this when we arranged our ingenious little
plan last night! We were to restore Mrs. Fraser’s name and position to
her untarnished; we were to set poor little Humpty-Dumpty up again
by—when was it?—Goodwood week; all in return for your ten minutes’ fun
in there! We were damned generous, you and I—only we reckoned without
Mrs. Fraser! [_Starting up._] And so, you see, after all, we’ve had our
fun, and enjoyed it, and yet pay nothing for it! But, at the same time,
we mustn’t forget that in this world everything has to be paid for by
somebody. By Jove, there’s no doubt as to who stands treat for last
night! Mrs. Fraser pays! that poor little, broken-down woman pays! _She_
pays——!
OLIVE.
[_Rising._] You blame me beyond all reason! I’ll not put up with it! Why
didn’t you call her aunt into the room last night when you saw Mrs.
Fraser becoming wilder and wilder? [_Walking away._] Pah! you appeared
moonstruck! moonstruck!
JOHN.
I thought I might save her from meeting her people while she was so
unlike herself. You know I was helpless——[_She approaches; he seizes her
by the shoulders._] You—you reproach me! Why didn’t you strike that bell
sooner? why didn’t you strike it sooner? [_Leaving her, and throwing
himself into a chair._] Ah, you weren’t capable even of that!
OLIVE.
[_Tearfully, rubbing her shoulders._] Oh, John——!
JOHN.
I beg your pardon.
OLIVE.
[_Going to him slowly, leaning against the balustrade._] John——
JOHN.
Well?
OLIVE.
I will confess it to you—I didn’t strike the bell at all.
JOHN.
You—did not?
OLIVE.
I was under the impression I had stopped the clock before I sat down to
listen, but in my agitation I must have shaken it and started it again.
[_Kneeling beside_ JOHN’S _chair_.] The clock struck of its own accord.
JOHN.
And you sat there, drinking in every word; and when the poor creature
had cleared herself, and _satisfied_ you, still you made no effort——!
[_Rising._] Oh!
OLIVE.
[_Seizing his coat._] John, I _couldn’t_ move from that curtain! I was a
wretch! Pity me! I _couldn’t_ stir! [JOHN _walks away. She rises from
the ground and sits._] Oh, get me a carriage of some sort to take me to
the station.
JOHN.
[_Going towards the bell._] I’ll tell Quaife. [_Pausing, looking at
her._] I don’t know—I can’t imagine—how you are going to get through
your life——
OLIVE.
Oh, please! I’ve been lectured by Mrs. Fraser, Oh, there are heaps of
solitary women in the world; some people envy them. [_He sits upon the
settee._] Now that—now that—the chances of our coming together again
have fallen through, I shall be off out of London at once. Where can one
go to at this time of the year?
JOHN.
[_Abstractedly._] Eh? Er—it’s a bit early for most places.
OLIVE.
I’m going to Aix in August.
JOHN.
[_Looking up._] You are?
OLIVE.
Oh! Why, did _you_ think of——?
JOHN.
Yes. But it doesn’t matter.
OLIVE.
Oh, I don’t want to interfere with your——
JOHN.
Aix is a pretty big place.
OLIVE.
Where will you stay?
JOHN.
I’ve been told, the “Splendide”——
OLIVE.
Oh——!
JOHN.
What?
OLIVE.
I can easily put up elsewhere.
JOHN.
You needn’t. I dare say the “Splendide” is quite large enough for two
people who—who——
OLIVE.
Who want to keep far apart. [_Rising, and going towards the door,
pausing by the head of the settee._] How ridiculous that reconciliation
of ours last night! Why, how many weeks should we have been together?
JOHN.
[_His head resting upon his hands._] Not many—not many, I’m afraid.
OLIVE.
Weeks! Days, I should have said—or hours. “Heaven have mercy upon us!
we’re reconciled!” Do you remember—last night——?
JOHN.
Ha! yes.
OLIVE.
“Heaven have mercy upon us!” Ha, ha!
JOHN.
Heaven have mercy on us!
OLIVE.
[_Wiping the tears from her eyes._] I—I’ll go and put my bonnet on. [_He
rises, and she holds out her hand._] Good-bye, John.
JOHN.
[_Taking her hand, looking away._] Good-bye.
OLIVE.
[_Suddenly drawing back._] Oh——!
JOHN.
What?
OLIVE.
[_Breathlessly._] Oh, yes——!
JOHN.
Olive?
OLIVE.
Ah—h—h—h, you’ll find plenty of pretty women at Aix——!
QUAIFE _enters, showing in_ MRS. EMPTAGE _and_ CLAUDE.
QUAIFE _retires_. MRS. EMPTAGE _is in a bright and
fashionable morning dress_.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_To_ OLIVE.] Mrs. Allingham——! [_To_ CLAUDE.] Claude, keep by me. My
legs are all of a tremble. Where is my daughter, Mrs. Fraser? Take me to
her. I am very ill indeed; I fancy this affair has affected my heart——
JOHN.
Pray sit down for a moment.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_Sitting down._] We used to be friends, Mr. Allingham—great friends;
now I wonder you can look me in the face. [_Panting._] I have heard
everything from Claude. I am ashamed—I must say it—I am ashamed of you
and your wife.
[OLIVE _makes a movement, as if to go_; JOHN _detains her_.
JOHN.
[_To_ OLIVE.] No, no; I don’t think we’ll run away and hide any more.
[_Turning to_ MRS. EMPTAGE.] But I hope that Mrs. Emptage will be kind
enough to apply to me, alone, any harsh expressions she may care to make
use of——
SIR FLETCHER _enters_.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
[_Advancing._] Ah, Muriel——!
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_Rising, throwing her arms round_ SIR FLETCHER’S _neck_.] Oh, Fletcher,
Fletcher! I’ve hardly closed my eyes all night!
CLAUDE.
May I ask what has gone on during my absence?
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
During _your_ absence——!
MRS. EMPTAGE.
Is Alec here?
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
Yes, the family gathering is complete.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
Does Theo return to Lennox Gardens? Has an arrangement of any sort been
come to?
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
None that I know of. I seem to be powerless.
MRS. CLOYS _and_ FRASER _enter_.
CLAUDE.
[_Meeting them._] ’Ullo, aunt! ’ullo, Fraser!
[MRS. EMPTAGE _totters to_ MRS. CLOYS. CLAUDE _retires_.
JOHN _walks away to the fireplace_. OLIVE _is now seated
upon the settee_.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_Embracing_ MRS. CLOYS.] Oh, Harriet, I am very poorly; I don’t think I
have had two hours’ rest all night. [_Going to_ FRASER _and kissing
him_.] Alec, you will prove a generous, good fellow—of that I am sure.
Poor Theo has behaved very indiscreetly. I really believe my heart has
been upset by it all——
MRS. CLOYS.
I have something important to say, Muriel. Pray sit down and be quiet.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_In a flutter._] I know, I know. Unless I can be kept quiet it will be
very serious for me. [_In her agitation, she is about to sit upon the
settee beside_ OLIVE.] Oh, dear, what am I doing! [_Moving away, she
stops, pointing to the library._] Great heavens! was that the room——?
MRS. CLOYS.
Sssh! [MRS. EMPTAGE _sits again_. FRASER _goes to the window and stands
there, apart, his back turned to those in the room_.] What I have to say
concerns the future Of Theophila——[_There is a movement on the part of_
JOHN _and_ OLIVE.] Please, let nobody go. All who are here are
interested in the future of Mrs. Fraser—[_looking at_ OLIVE]—and I
believe sympathetically interested. [_Sitting._] In fact, I want it to
be known that a very happy arrangement has been arrived at.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_To_ SIR FLETCHER.] Fletcher, you said _no_ arrangement had been
arrived at.
SIR FLETCHER.
I have not been consulted, Harriet.
MRS. CLOYS.
I did not consider it necessary, Fletcher. There was a question whether
the plan I had in view _could_ be carried out.
SIR FLETCHER.
Then you—you have constituted yourself a—a sort of—arbitrator——
MRS. CLOYS.
As you say, a sort of arbitratrix, I suppose.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
The cloak of pedantry, Harriet, scarcely conceals your want of respect
for your brother.
[_Passing_ MRS. CLOYS, _as if about to quit the room_.
MRS. CLOYS.
[_Touching his arm._] We’ll all keep our tempers, Fletcher. [_He
remains._] Yes, the thought came to me during the night—a long, anxious
night——
MRS. EMPTAGE.
Ah, indeed!
MRS. CLOYS.
The thought that I would telegraph to the bishop the very first thing
this morning.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
The bishop!
MRS. CLOYS.
Asking, him to come to me at once.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
Will he do so?
MRS. CLOYS.
The bishop is goodness and compliance personified. He left St. Olpherts
at ten o’clock this morning; he is here.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
Here!
MRS. EMPTAGE.
I shall be ashamed to meet him; after my sleepless night my face is so
dreadfully lined——!
MRS. CLOYS.
The bishop does not notice the lines in women’s faces. Directly he
arrived, I submitted my scheme; in two words, he approved; it will be
carried into execution.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
I do not ask _what_ scheme.
MRS. CLOYS.
Theophila returns to St. Olpherts at once with us. She will rest there
two or three days, by which time I shall have found a suitable house in
town——
MRS. EMPTAGE.
In town——?
MRS. CLOYS.
The bishop and I have not had a house in town for some years. Mr. Fraser
kindly sees house agents this afternoon.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
I would willingly have seen house agents, Harriet. A furnished house——?
MRS. CLOYS.
[_Assenting._] For the season—sufficiently large for the dear bishop,
myself, and Theophila. Both in London and at St. Olpherts, Theophila
will be my close companion. In our little London gaieties she will
figure prominently. At certain formal gatherings she will share the
responsibilities of the hostess. If any paragraph concerning our doings
should creep into the newspaper, it will concern the Bishop of St.
Olpherts, Mrs. Cloys, _and_ Mrs. Fraser of Locheen. Oh, I don’t think
there will be many to wag evil tongues against Mrs. Fraser a few months
hence!
[OLIVE _rises, and advances to_ MRS. CLOYS, _who stands as
she approaches_.
OLIVE.
[_In a low voice, to_ MRS. CLOYS.] I’m glad; I’m very glad.
MRS. CLOYS.
That’s right.
OLIVE.
[_Falteringly._] But your—your scheme owes—just a little to my idea,
doesn’t it?
MRS. CLOYS.
I admit it. Mrs. Allingham, I am sure you don’t grudge——
OLIVE.
No, no; indeed I don’t. I—I hope you will succeed—to the utmost——
[_She turns away, and goes out by the dining-room door._
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_Rising, fretfully._] It seems to me everything is taken out of one’s
hands——
SIR FLETCHER.
In a most unceremonious way——
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_Glancing at_ FRASER, _who is now out in the garden_.] What about
Alec—Mr. Fraser——?
SIR FLETCHER.
Of course, any policy that doesn’t tend to bring my niece and her
husband together——
MRS. CLOYS.
Ah, I haven’t told you. Mr. Fraser is to be a frequent—a fairly frequent
visitor in London, and at St. Olpherts.
SIR FLETCHER.
[_With a sniff._] Visitor——
MRS. CLOYS.
And it is further arranged that, in a year’s time, Mr. Fraser comes to
us and formally asks Theophila to return to Lennox Gardens.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
And when he does——?
MRS. CLOYS.
Then we shall see what we shall see.
SIR FLETCHER.
[_Walking away._] I can’t quite explain my feeling—but I am not
sanguine—not at all sanguine.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
At any rate, in less than twelve months, if I know my girl, she will
have grown heartily sick of her solemn surroundings.
MRS. CLOYS.
[_Indignantly._] How dare you——! how——! [_Checking herself._] Well,
suppose she _does_ weary of me, good will result even from _that_ if it
sends her back to her husband.
[_The door opens, and the_ BISHOP OF ST. OLPHERTS _enters
with_ THEOPHILA _upon his arm_. JUSTINA _follows them,
carrying a shawl. The bishop is a mild-looking, very old
man._ THEOPHILA _is dressed in her cape and bonnet, and
her face is hidden under her thick veil_.
THEOPHILA.
[_Coming to_ MRS. EMPTAGE, _and kissing her_.] Mother——
[MRS. EMPTAGE _kisses her hastily and, bustles over to the_
BISHOP.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
Ah, Bishop, I can hardly hope you’ll recollect me.
BISHOP.
[_Vaguely._] Yes, yes, yes.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_With a simper._] Muriel, you know.
BISHOP.
[_Taking her hand._] Mrs. Emptage——!
MRS. EMPTAGE.
Don’t tell me; I know I’m altered.
BISHOP.
Ah, years pass over us.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
It isn’t that—but I had no sleep last night.
[SIR FLETCHER _advances, and grasps the_ BISHOP’S _hand_.
SIR FLETCHER.
I remember years ago, at the opening of the People’s Library at
Stockwell, describing Dr. Cloys as one of the stoutest pillars of our
Church——
BISHOP.
[_Uneasily._] The People’s Library at——?
SIR FLETCHER.
Stockwell. To-day I have only to add—may that pillar never grow faint
nor weary; may its back remain equal to the burden imposed upon it; may
it continue to plough the stormy seas of scepticism and agnosticism!
BISHOP.
[_Helplessly._] Er-r—who is it?
MRS. CLOYS.
My brother Fletcher.
BISHOP.
Ah, how do you do?
QUAIFE _appears_.
MRS. CLOYS.
Is the fly here?
QUAIFE.
Yes, ma’am.
[QUAIFE _withdraws. The_ BISHOP _moves towards the window_,
SIR FLETCHER _closely following him_.
THEOPHILA.
[_To_ MRS. EMPTAGE.] Good-bye, mother dear.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_Embracing her._] Oh, good-bye, my darling. I won’t reproach you. If
you make a bed you must lie on it. You’ve nearly broken my heart, but
I’m only your mother——
THEOPHILA.
Oh, don’t——!
MRS. EMPTAGE.
[_In a whisper._] Mind you see that we visit you constantly in London
and St Olpherts!
THEOPHILA.
Yes, yes. [_As she is walking away, she sees_ JOHN—_who has been
standing silently behind the settee, his back turned to those in the
room—and she says to the others_.] One moment. [_She comes down, looking
at_ JOHN.] Mr. Allingham. [_He approaches her slowly. After a pause she
says in a low voice._] Oh, Jack, how could you? [_He bows his head,
making no reply._] Well—for auld lang-syne——[_She holds out her hand; he
takes it, but releases it quickly. She turns to go, then pauses._]
Where’s your wife? [_He looks towards the dining-room door. She
hesitates for a moment, then, goes out quickly by that door._]
MRS. CLOYS.
[_Looking round._] Theophila—Theophila——
JOHN.
[_Watching the door._] She will be here in a moment; she is with my
wife.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
[_His voice rising._] My dear bishop, it is my view of life, and the
observation has some theological bearing, that the devil almost
invariably appears to women in the form of Impulse. In saying this, I am
perhaps on the verge of a truism——
BISHOP OF ST. OLPHERTS.
No, no, no.
THEOPHILA _re-enters; her veil is raised_.
THEOPHILA.
[_As she passes_ JOHN, _lowering her veil_.] It’s all right.
[_There is a hubbub of talk as_ THEOPHILA _and her relatives
go out at the upper door_.
MRS. EMPTAGE.
You will need a warm wrap, Theo.
JUSTINA.
I have one here, mother.
MRS. CLOYS.
Now, Bishop——
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
Is the carriage closed?
BISHOP OF ST. OLPHERTS.
I hope not.
SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.
You shall run no risk, my dear bishop——
MRS. EMPTAGE.
Claude, come to the gate. Give me your arm, Alec——
[_The talk ceases._ JOHN _is alone. After a pause he goes
out into the garden and stands looking off towards the
left, as if watching the departing carriage._ OLIVE
_enters slowly and sadly; she sits upon the settee,
covering her eyes with her hand_. JOHN _re-enters the
room. Seeing_ OLIVE, _he remains where he is for a
moment or two irresolutely; then he comes down to her,
sits beside her and takes her hand_.
THE END.
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
_London and Edinburgh_
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12mo, cloth, 3s. net; or, paper covers, 2s. 6d. net.
_The Athenæum._—“If this series keeps up to the present
high level of interest, novel readers will have fresh cause for
gratitude to Mr. Heinemann.”
_The Daily Telegraph._—“Mr. Heinemann’s genial nursery
of up-to-date to romance.”
_The Observer._—“The smart Pioneer Series.”
_The Manchester Courier._—“The Pioneer Series promises
to be as original as many other of Mr. Heinemann’s ventures.”
JOANNA TRAILL, SPINSTER. By ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH.
GEORGE MANDEVILLE’S HUSBAND. By C. E. RAIMOND.
THE WINGS OF ICARUS. By LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA.
THE GREEN CARNATION. By R. S. HICHENS.
AN ALTAR OF EARTH. By THYMOL MONK.
A STREET IN SUBURBIA. By E. W. PUGH.
THE NEW MOON. By C. E. RAIMOND.
MILLY’S STORY. By Mrs. MONTAGUE CRACKANTHORPE.
MRS. MUSGRAVE—AND HER HUSBAND. By RICHARD MARSH.
THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE. By WILLIAM J. LOCKE.
THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. By STEPHEN CRANE.
SOME FRIENDS AND A WOMAN. By C. G. COMPTON.
PAPIER MACHÉE. By CHARLES ALLEN.
THE NEW VIRTUE. By Mrs. OSCAR BERINGER.
ACROSS AN ULSTER BOG. By M. HAMILTON.
_Other Volumes to follow._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
=Popular 3s. 6d. Novels.=
ACCORDING TO ST. JOHN. By AMÉLIE RIVES.
ORIOLE’S DAUGHTER. By JESSIE FOTHERGILL.
THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS. By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS
and HERBERT D. WARD.
THE HEAD OF THE FIRM. By Mrs. RIDDELL.
THE STORY OF A PENITENT SOUL. By ADELINE SERGEANT.
THE SURRENDER OF MARGARET BELLARMINE. By ADELINE
SERGEANT.
NOR WIFE, NOR MAID. By Mrs. HUNGERFORD.
THE HOYDEN. By Mrs. HUNGERFORD.