‘Quite soon.’

 

‘How soon?’

 

‘Next week—O yes—just the same as it was with you and me.  There’s a strange fate of interruption hanging over me, I sometimes think!  He had bought the licence, which I preferred so that it mightn’t be like—ours.  But it made no difference to the fate of it.’

 

‘Had bought the licence!  The devil!’

 

‘Don’t be angry, dear John.  I didn’t know!’

 

‘No, no, I’m not angry.’

 

‘It was so kind of him, considering!’

 

‘Yes . . . I see, of course, how natural your action was—never thinking of seeing me any more!  Is it the Mr. Miller who is in this dance?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

Clark glanced round upon Bartholomew and was silent again, for some little while, and she stole a look at him, to find that he seemed changed.  ‘John, you look ill!’ she almost sobbed³.  ‘’Tisn’t me, is it?’

 

‘O dear, no.  Though I hadn’t, somehow, expected it.  I can’t find fault with you for a moment—and I don’t . . . This is a deuce of a long dance, don’t you think?  We’ve been at it twenty minutes if a second, and the figure doesn’t allow one much rest.  I’m quite out of breath.’

 

‘They like them so dreadfully long here.  Shall we drop out?  Or I’ll stop the fiddler.’

 

‘O no, no, I think I can finish.  But although I look healthy enough I have never been so strong as I formerly⁴ was, since that long illness I had in the hospital at Scutari.’

 

‘And I knew nothing about it!’

 

‘You couldn’t, dear, as I didn’t write.  What a fool I have been altogether!’  He gave a

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