Harry. I am hungry. Can I live another half-hour on a cup of coffee? Half an hour! I'll stand it somehow. I'll starve myself every morning for Nora's sake. I'll sacrifice myself every hour of the day for Nora's sake. I'll I wonder where she got this notion of breakfasting in the foreign fashion; as if I hadn't had enough of foreigners and their fashions! I did think that when I married I should leave all that nonsense with my mother in Paris, and come home and live like a Briton; and eat ham and eggs at nine o'clock, and a muffin-a muffin! Oh, but Nora vishes it, and she shall never know that I don't delight in waiting for my breakfast till twelve o'clock. Clara Roedale would never believe it of me. I always knew that marriage would bring out the finer parts of my character. I am married, and the finer parts of my character are brought out. Muffin! There's nothing eatable about here! One can't eat coal. A paper-knife! No. By George, there was a biscuit somewhere yesterday! Yes there certainly was a biscuit in my greatcoat-pocket. I can be cheerful with a biscuit; and Nora shall never know what I suffer for her sake.

(Harry goes in search of the biscuit; and Nora comes in search of her husband.)

Nora. Harry! Harry! Where can he be? Oh, I am famished, and I am glad of it! Harry, it is for your sake that I endure these torments. You shall never have reason to say that you resigned the easy habits of Continental life for the sake of a little girl like me. Your friend Lady Roedale-dear Lady Roedale-shall never be able to say that I put a stop to a single

one of your delightful bachelor amusements. You shall smoke everywhere. I will beg and implore you to go to your horrid club. I will teach myself to dote upon your absence. I will learn to like tobacco. I will starve myself every day till noon. I will- Oh, if I could only find the smallest morsel of bread! Half an hour more! no; only six-and-twenty minutes! Courage! That's Harry's step. With him I could go without breakfast for ever. Always meet your husband with a smile. That's Clara Roedale's golden rule. I will smile, if I die for it.

H. (as he comes in). Ah, Nora! Why, what's the matter, dear? What an odd smile you've got!

N. Have I, dear? I was thinking of you.

H. Thanks, Nora; you don't know what an awfully clever dog your Moppet is.

N. Isn't he clever?

H. Fancy his getting a biscuit out of my greatcoat-pocket!

N. Did he really? The clever darling! Are you quite sure? H. I saw the crumbs on the floor.

N. You speak quite sentimentally about it.

H. Oh yes, it's quite pathetic this sagacity of dumb animals. Isn't it a lovely morning? I've been round the garden and the meadow.

N. To get an appetite for break

fast?

H. No that is, I'm hungry enough, I'm not very hungry.

N. Of course not. Nineteen minutes and a half!

H. What, dear?

N. Nothing. Is there anything in the paper?

H. Not a bit. But you? Would you like to have it now if it's ready?

N. I really think I should-if you are quite sure that you would not like it later.

H. I don't think so.

N. (heroically). Harry, shall I put it off for half an hour?

H. As you please, dear. (He sinks into a chair.)

(Here is a pause full of emotion.) N. If breakfast is ready, it may be spoiled by being kept; and then you wouldn't like it. Shall I go and see if it's ready?

H. Perhaps you like it spoiled. N. What an idea!, (At the door) -Oh, how delicious!

H. (as he joins her). Isn't it good? Let me go and see if breakfast's ready. (He goes out.)

N. He was an ornament of society. I know it. Shall I be so wickedly selfish as to deprive society of its most brilliant ornament? The more I dote on a quiet life with Harry, and nobody else, the more I hate outside people, and dressing up, and dancing about; the more I hate those odious picnics with spiders-oh, how afraid I am of a spider!-the more certain I am that it is my duty to pretend to like them all, to dissemble for Harry's sake, and for the sake of society. Yes, Harry, you shall go to a picnic every day, if I die for it. I think I am dying. I feel thin- very, very thin. think I am going to faint.

I

(Here Harry appears leaning in the doorway, pale and faint.)

H. Nora! the cook wants to speak to you.

N. Oh, Harry, is anything the matter?

H. I don't know.

(She goes out; he sinks into a chair.)

If I could get something to eat, some breakfast, I could face this

picnic. I would go cheerfully to a picnic, even to a picnic. How I used to long for rest! When I chose a little girl in the country, I fancied a sort of ballet life,-all cream and roses, and jam, and a cigar under a tree, with sheep about, and and rest. It was like my abominable selfishness. Nora has never had any fun. Of course Nora would like to have some fun. Of course Nora shall have some fun; and I'll pretend to like it. Fun! Turning round and round in a crowd, and being kicked on the ankles! Eating lobster-salad and 'ices at three o'clock in the morning! Talking to a girl about another girl's eyes, and staring into hers! Fun! the treadmill's a joke to it. And yet all this and more will I go through for the sake of my little Nora-all except that eye business. Nora shall taste the pleasures of society; and I'll pretend to enjoy them; by George, I will enjoy them!

(When his voice has sunk to the depth of tragic gloom, Nora runs in.)

N. Breakfast is ready.

H. Ah!

(They go away lovingly to break fast. After a while Lady Roedale is shown in by the footman.)

Lady Roedale. At breakfast, are they? Don't tell them I am here. I can wait. (The footman goes away.) It is always easy to wait. Perhaps it will amuse me to take the young couple by surprise. There really is There really is something funny in young married people. They are so delightfully so delightfully important. I sometimes fancy that I've got what clever people call a sense of humour. I am sure I smile at all these flutterings, and billings and cooings, and solemn calculations about the expense of a nest. The theme's old as Adam, but the variations are endless. I like to see little mistress adjusting her

fads to young master's hobbies; I like this much ado about a brace of nothings; I like young couples. One must go in for something. Susan Lorimer breaks her poor head over cracked china: I should puzzle my brain, if I had one, over young couples; they are quite as interesting to the dilettante. Certainly I have no reason to like the married state. Ugh! but that's all over long ago. I like to view it from outside. I become absurdly interested in the marriage of Tom, Dick, and Harry-especially Harry. Harry was a very nice boy-devoted to me. There's nothing so good for that sort of boy as a devotion to a steady, sensible woman-a good, solid, middle-aged person. There's no knowing what might have become of Harry if Susan Lorimer had got hold of him before I did. Susan is so theatrical-always in the fourth act of the last French comedy-on the razor's edge. It's fun for her; but it might have been death to Harry. Now I studied him. I understood him. I saw what he was fit for. I just put him into shape a little; and I married him to the best little girl in the world. I haven't done anything which pleased me so much since I married Claud Huntley to that dear little thing in Rome. Nothing could have turned out better than that. She spoils him, and he is not so amusing since his temper improved; but still it's a great success; and he owes it all to me. I have half a mind to open an office. It's quite interesting to make matches. It's so experimental; there's something quite grand about it: it's patriarchal and biblical; it's like the ark, or fancy poultry.

H. (as he comes in). Clara! Lady Roedale!

Lady R. Harry, as you horrid boys say, how goes it?

H. As we horrid boys say, it

simply walks in. And what on earth brings you here? Lady R. Reasons are tiresome. You ought to say that you are glad.

H. I'm awfully glad.

Lady R. My doctor recommends the society of young people. I suppose you know that I am antediluvian, and ushered the animals into the ark.

H. How pleased Nora will be! Come and have some breakfast. Lady R. Thank you. I breakfast in the morning.

H. H'm. I don't.

Lady R. You used to be an absurdly early creature-up with the foolish lark.

H. Ah, yes. But you see Nora likes to breakfast at twelve, and so of course I

Lady R. Of course you! Oh, Harry, this is profoundly interesting. Do you do just what Nora likes in everything?

H. Yes. You didn't think it of me, did you? You thought all men were selfish, didn't you? Don't you remember telling me that all the men you ever knew-all your admirers, you know-were all selfish,-dark and fair, fat and thin, comic and gloomy, the whole lot of 'em all alike in being selfish?

Lady R. Very likely.

H. Well? Look at me. What ever turns up, I simply look at it in one way. I ask, What will Nora like? Then I pretend that what she likes is what I like.

Lady R. H'm. You tell fibs?
H. One must, you know.
Lady R. Must one?

H. Little unselfish sort of fibs, you know. I was in agony for two hours before breakfast, and I enjoyed it. I remembered where there was a biscuit, and Nora's infernal little beast of a dog had eaten it-and I enjoyed that! Now we

Lady R. She's wilder about me. Call her, and we'll see.

(Harry calls her, and she presently comes in.)

N. Lady Roedale! Oh, I am glad. Have you come to stay with us? Lady R. No, dear; only to spend the day.

N. Oh, I am sorry. lucky! Has Harry told our engagement?

How un

you about

H. Yes, and I want her to come too-you'd like that, wouldn't you, Nora? I thought I was sure you'd like it.

Lady R. It's impossible. I couldn't go in these things. H. Why, you look stunning. N. I am sure that that gown will do perfectly.

Lady R. Thanks, dear. I have passed the age of gowns that "will do perfectly." Don't you think you could throw over Susan Lorimer for me? I am sure nobody

can like her better than me.

N. Lady Roedale!

Lady R. Am I too old to be called Clara? Your husband always calls me Clara.

N. Does he?