what beauty shone from the Venus of Milo, the Magdalen of Veronese, in the Louvre. In tine, he had stood, with uncertain feet as yet, upon the threshold of that world of intelligence and of art in which the girl herself lived. Dora was quite right. In three short weeks Mademoiselle Barry's influence had begun to "educate" Steven Lawrence.
To any softer feeling than friendship, even had Steven been a free man, it is more than doubtful that the intimacy would have led. Love is a passion so singularly-little dependent upon development of intelligence, or, indeed, upon mental process of any kind! Mademoiselle Barry's evident liking for himself touched—I will not say, with Dot, his vanity—but his gratitude; her voice, and face, and pretty feminine ways made their friendship an infinitely warmer one than any friendship that he could have felt for a man. He was sorry for her. With the instinctive sympathy all fine natures know for each other, divined with what repugnance this sensitive, girlish heart must shrink from a life to which affection for her father bound her. Here, with gratitude, sympathy, pity, his feelings for her began and ended. Katharine Fane goes past him, smiling, on George Gordon's arm; half-turns her face, blushing, softening (fairer than all pictures or marbles in all galleries of the world), and the old madness—the sickening jealousy, the hopeless pain which yet holds in it a sweetness no pleasure can ever yield, is back upon him and poor little Mademoiselle Barry, forgotten! Katharine Fane's influence had in very truth blotted his entire life for him; he owed his marriage to her; she had made no secret as to the side she took in his divided household; had associated with Dora's associates, had lived Dora's life, had never given him more than a cold bow, or colder word, since she came to Paris. But she had looked at him with softened, blushing face, with wistful pity in her eyes, now! And in a second, all the blessed Summer hours in Kent—the hour when he found her, the children in her arms, upon the waste; the hour when they were alone at sunset on the sea—all the supremest golden hours of his love returned, in one great wave, across the yeoman's heart, and he forgave her. That story never could be finished, it seemed. That book must open at the same page to the end.
For the first time since he had known them Steven was invited to dine at the Barrys' house to-day. On former occasions he had either met them at the theatre to which they were going, or they had dined together first at a restaurant. But to-day was an exceptional festivity—got up to celebrate Mademoiselle Barry's birthday—"a grand affair of evening costume, and a première loge de face," M. Barry said, putting his arm tenderly round his daughter when she came in, dressed for dinner. "Katie, child, you are
