at nine o'clock the next morning, an hour later than his usual time, robert streightley entered his little dining-room and sat down to breakfast. he looked pale and fatigued; and there was an unnatural and unusual brightness in his eyes that at once attracted the notice of old alice, who had been the nurse of his childhood, and was now the housekeeper and confidential servant of the little family. the old lady was jealously careful of the health of "her boy," as she always spoke of him, and was accustomed to use the license of tongue allowed her in many caustic remarks. she came into the room just as robert seated himself at the table, and at once commenced to address him in her least conciliatory manner.

"o, you have got down at last, have you, master robert? i thought you was never coming, and there you might have lied before i'd have come up to help you! that's what i say, and what i mean."

"what's the matter, alice? you don't seem pleased this morning."

"pleased? who should be pleased, and a lovely steak and mushrooms left to burn itself away to a cinder, and you never coming home to dinner. to dinner, indeed!--not coming home till all hours of the night. i heard your key in the lock, though you thought i was asleep, as all good christians ought to have been at such an hour--but i heard you. and not foreign-post night either, nor west indy mail, nor one of them city dinners, else you'd have been home to dress or took your bag with you to the office. well, it's not for an old woman like me to say, but there's no doubt you're doing too much, slaving like no blackamoor that ever i read of, and all for what? all for---- it's as good bacon as ever was cured, though you do push your plate away in that fashion. try a bit, master robert--come now!"

"i can't, alice. my mouth's out of taste. i've no appetite this morning; give me a cup of tea,--there's a dear soul,--and let me be quiet."

"let you be quiet! you don't think i'd bother you, do you? cup of tea, indeed. you'll want more than a cup of tea if you go on in this way, sitting up till all hours and fagging yourself over your business. i'm sure your 'ma and miss ellen will think you looking quite ill, when they come back from york; and it's all that dratted office as is doing it. i should like to see any body else who sticks to it as you do, and all for what--that's what i want to know? all for what? if you was a struggling on with nine children to educate and do for, you couldn't grind at it harder than you do; and you'll find it out sooner than you expect. ah, robert!" exclaimed the old woman, suddenly softening in her tone, and coming up close to him, "robert, my own dear boy, don't be so headstrong, deary; don't work your life away in this fashion. there's no one knows you so well as i do, and i see you're doing too much, and you're beginning to show it. don't work so hard, my boy, my own dear boy!"

robert streightley put up his big arm and pulled down the old woman's head, and pressed her hard rough cheek, down which the tears were flowing silently, close to his own. then, with an affectation of cheerfulness, he said:

"why, alice! why, nurse! you must not fancy such foolish things, old lady. i am perfectly well and hearty; only a little done-up this morning, perhaps, after an extra pressure of business yesterday, which kept me up rather later than usual, but otherwise all right."

"i'm a foolish old woman, i know, robert; but i love you very dearly, and you're all i've left to love; and when you don't come home, i get frightened and nervous, and fancy you're doing too much, and, that you ought to be here, in the dining-room, reading your newspaper or having your little nap, as usual, in the evenings, instead of working away at that horrible office to all hours. and you won't be home to-day again, i suppose?"

"o yes, indeed i shall! what made you think that?"

"why, you've got on that blue frock-coat, and a white waistcoat, and your best cravat; just for all as you dress yourself when you go to them ship-launches, or greenwich dinners of your companies, or other places which keep you away from where you're best--at your own home."

streightley smiled, rather a ghastly smile, as he said: "o no i'm only going to call on some rather particular people who--it's best to--at all events--i mean who are accustomed to something different from us--city fellows, you know!"

it was feebly said, and feebly received by old alice, who looked very grim, and only remarked: "ay, ay--ay, ay!"

he made but a very poor apology for a breakfast, and said not a great deal more to his old friend, who stood by, vainly hoping for that "chat" with her boy which was the prime event of her day. but this morning robert streightley was preoccupied; he sat over the table long after he had finished eating, idly playing with the crumbs, and evidently buried in thought. at length he roused himself, and after referring several times nervously to his watch, he started for town.

it was his habit to go by omnibus; and from his long residence at brixton he was known to all the coachmen on the road, each of whom on passing gave him a semi-respectful semi-inviting salutation. but robert streightley was not inclined for an omnibus-ride this morning; he felt somehow that such a mode of conveyance would not accord with the world a glimpse of which he had had on the previous day, nor with the errand on which he was proceeding; so he hailed the first disengaged hansom, and was driven rapidly to queen anne street. so rapidly, that when he alighted from the cab at the corner of the street he found it yet wanted twelve minutes of eleven, the hour he had named for his interview with mr. guyon. he could not be before his time; that would be as much against the strict business rule in which he had been brought up as being behind it would argue either leisure or a strong interest in the matter then on hand, and neither supposition he thought advisable in respect to him. so he determined to eke out the time; and for that purpose strolled up a side street, and found himself gazing vacantly on the dressing and exercising of horses and the washing of carriages, in a mews, at the entrance to which he stood for some little time. after walking round and round, and circling a very narrowed square, he found that the back part of mr. guyon's house looked into this mews; and then he busied himself with wondering which was miss guyon's room, and whether she were there at that time, and whether she had thought of him since the interview in the city, and what she had thought of him, and---- and then looking at his watch, he found the eventful hour had arrived; so he walked boldly round, and, ringing the bell, demanded to see mr. guyon.

a colourless footman with light hair and weak eyes, in a very washed-out lilac-striped jacket and dusty gray trousers, answered the bell, and showed streightley into the dining-room. this was a cheerless apartment, painted salmon-colour, with a dozen cromwell chairs in faded american cloth and spurious oak ranged round the room, but with some genuine ancestors, a lely, a couple of knellers, a reynolds--such a conception of female childish purity and grace!--and a lawrence, hanging on the walls. the turkey carpet was faded and patched; the green table-cover was stained and torn; the window-blinds were yellow, and damp-stained; and every where there was a laissez aller which generally bespeaks the absence of female government. the mantelpiece was covered with purple velvet blurred with sticky rings made by overflowing glasses; in the centre of it lay an oxydised-silver cigar-ash holder in the form of an open spread leaf, in which still remained the ends of a couple of half-smoked cigars; and in the looking-glass, between the glass and the frame, were invitation-cards, photographs of boxers, and ladies of the parisian theatres, all wearing the same scanty drapery and leering the selfsame leer,--applications for payment of queen's taxes, and notices that the "collector had called" for the water-rate. robert streightley had gazed round him; and with the power of appreciation innate in him had remarked these various objects and indications when the door opened quickly, and mr. guyon entered the room.

mr. guyon, none but he; no mistaking him. in the bold face that flashed upon him streightley recognised a coarser and stronger rendering of miss guyon's every feature: the delicately-cut slightly aquiline nose, the small rounded chin, the vivacious green-gray eye. mr. guyon's hair, which was rather sparse and thin, was of a different colour from his daughter's; was indeed in itself of two distinct hues, being very black and glossy in certain lights, and very purple and lustreless in others. his complexion, too, was peculiar,--mottled and speckled, something like a plover's egg, save just under the eyes, on the top of the cheekbones, where it had a very roseate hue. he was dressed in a loose blue-silk jacket with a red collar and red sleeve-linings, and wore a pair of turkish trousers, tied round the waist with a cord like a bell-rope. his turn-down collar was cut very low, showing a great deal of bony throat; his wristbands were long, fastened with elaborate carbuncle studs, and coming far down over his white, well-shaped hands. he wore striped-silk socks of the rather loud pattern,--which, seen at the theatre under the loose garb of the mandarin, enables us to make a tolerably accurate guess at the identity of the person in the pantomime who is to be "afterwards clown,"--and natty red-morocco slippers. he came into the room with a rush, had robert streightley by the hand in an instant, and forced him into a chair as he said,

"mr. streightley, this is kind indeed! this is an honour i can never forget!"

streightley, rather taken aback at the warmth of his reception, said, "it is nothing, mr. guyon. i can assure you i merely called because----"

"i know, my dear sir, i know. my daughter explained to me what she did yesterday, and how generously you received her." robert's eyes brightened as he listened. "women, you know, my dear sir, are all impulse. you are a married man, my dear mr. streightley? no! well, still, my dear sir, i daresay--ha, ha!--that you have thorough experience of the other sex. when a man is young, and pleasing, and rich--o yes, by george, rich ha, ha!--he has opportunities of studying the other sex, even if he be not married. not married? let me see, what was i saying? o, my daughter--who is the prop and sunshine of my life, the dearest and most devoted creature in the world--my daughter has told me of the document which caused her such fright. it was--it was merely the--usual notice, i suppose?"

"it was the usual notice."

as streightley said this, a loud peal at the door-bell attracted his attention.

"and the amount?"

"a hundred and eighty pounds odd--stay, i have the bill with me;" and drawing out his pocketbook, robert produced the document. as he did this, he heard the street-door opened, and the sound of a man's footsteps passing the dining-room and going upstairs. his heart sank within him. he would swear to that footfall--swear to it any where; had he not heard it twelve hours before echoing up the hollow staircase in crown office row? it was that man; and he was going upstairs to see miss guyon, doubtless in fulfilment of some appointment made during the exchange of bows and glances at the carriage-door last night. he turned deadly pale, and his lips trembled.

"will you allow me to look at that bill?" said mr. guyon in his most mellifluous tones. "thank you. how your hand trembles!--a little chill perhaps. draw closer to the fire. we seem to have begun the cold weather already. for my own part, i could always endure a fire--o, this is really very bad of davidson; very bad indeed!" he had been surveying the document which streightley had handed to him through a pair of gold double eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose; and he now looked over them at streightley as he repeated, "very bad indeed!"

"i--i beg your pardon--my attention was diverted. what did you say?"

"i said, mr. streightley," said mr. guyon with increased sternness, "that this is a very bad business of davidson's. i gave him this acceptance, sir, to help him in--the what do you call it?--the hour of need, under the full understanding that he would meet it. it was for his convenience, not for mine. i never had a shilling of the produce; and now he leaves me to discharge it at a time when he knows that----"

"that it will be inconvenient to meet it?"

"you anticipate my words, sir. what with paying calls on shares, and investments in certain other affairs which i have authority--almost as good as yours, my dear sir--for believing in, my balance at my banker's is at its lowest permissible ebb."

"if it will be any accommodation to you, mr. guyon, i'll send my cheque to meet this acceptance; and i'll take another from you at three months," said streightley nervously. if he were ever to be received upstairs, it must be through the father's influence.

"my dear sir, a thousand thanks! i'm really very much obliged to you--very much obliged. i'm sure any terms which----"

"i think the bank rate is three and a half just now," interrupted streightley with a slight smile; "we money-brokers charge one per cent in advance of that. so that you see i make something of you after all."

"my dear sir," said mr. guyon, advancing towards him with outstretched hand, "you endeavour to make light of an obligation; but i'm too much of an old soldier not to know the service you have rendered me. and i thank you for it--i thank you for it! in these levelling days, when a gentleman meets a gentleman, they should close ranks and march together, by george! give me your hand, sir. i'm proud to make your acquaintance. i hope to renew it. there are not many that ned guyon sees at his table, because, perhaps, he's infernally particular, and does not choose to mix with cads. but those who come are of the right sort; and he'll be proud to see you among them."

"you're very good, i'm sure," said streightley. "perhaps you'll give me a call in the city in a day or two, and we'll put this matter on a business footing. and now i must be off. i shall be delighted to come whenever you ask me--and--my compliments to miss guyon. good-day!" and with a warm shake of his new acquaintance's hand--a shake which was enthusiastically returned--robert streightley took his departure.

left to himself, mr. guyon plunged his hands into the pockets of his turkish trousers and strode several times up and down the room, finally stopping in front of the looking-glass and soliloquising: "a rum start,--a devilish rum start! i thought i'd seen every variety of discounters, but i never met one who behaved like that before. what the devil was his motive? he had one, of course; but what the devil was it?"

meanwhile a very different scene was being enacted in the drawing-room. robert streightley's prescience had not deceived him. the ring at the bell, which acted with such electrical effect on streightley's nerves, was given by the young man whom he had followed to his chambers on the previous evening; the footstep passing up the staircase was his footstep; and the colourless footman, throwing open the drawing-room door, announced him as "mr. gordon frere." miss guyon looked up from the flowers she was tending, and her cheek slightly flushed. the flush was very becoming to miss guyon--at least mr. frere approved of it highly, as he did of her high-cut mouse-coloured plush dress, her neat linen collar fastened with a handsome dead-gold brooch, her long cuffs, and her simply-arranged hair.

"you are early, mr. frere," said miss guyon, as she extended her hand to her visitor; but she made the remark in a tone which marked her approval of the circumstance.

"yes," he replied; "i feared you might have gone to the park, if i came later."

"i don't ride to-day," said katharine with a bright smile; "papa is busy, and i did not make any other arrangements."

she moved away from the table over which she had been bending as she spoke, and seated herself in a low chair, happily placed in the shade of the window-curtain. gordon frere took his seat upon an ottoman near her, and contemplated the lining of his hat with close attention. not that he was at all awkward--awkwardness was not in mr. frere's nature, certainly not in his habits--but he was not a particularly ready talker, and under the circumstances this seemed the correct thing to do. katharine guyon's manners were, in certain respects, perfect; they were, indeed, rather too perfect and independent; she presented too complete a contrast to the drooping-lily style of girl; and she never suffered from a sense of embarrassment. it was not, therefore, shyness which lent her downy cheek that beautiful flush it had worn at the entrance of her visitor, and continued to wear, or that softened glance which darkened the colour and deepened the expression of her eyes. she was very glad to see him, and she showed her gladness; and there was a pleasant gleeful ring in the tone in which she talked to him of the various but trivial events of the preceding day, of their common acquaintances, and of the delights of last night's opera.

her voice and accent were remarkably refined, and the tone of her conversation, though its matter was only of the ordinary kind, was far removed from the commonplace. she touched her topics lightly and easily, let them go without too much handling, and gradually infused into her companion some of the brightness and buoyancy which animated herself. gordon frere had seen her sufficiently often to be familiar with most of her moods, and with all the variations of her appearance, for hers was by no means the "beauty for ever unchangingly bright," which is also undeniably uninteresting; but he began to think that he had never seen her to so much advantage as on this occasion, and to discover new charms in her, as she sat and talked to him, in her clear fresh voice, and her low happy laughter broke every now and then the tenor of their dialogue.

what did they talk about? that would be difficult to tell; and the discourse, written down, which suffices to charm and engross two young persons, already very well disposed to regard each other as the most bewitching and delightful individuals in the world, would have singularly little attraction for a third party outside that enchanted pale, which encloses within a magic circle the sayings and doings of those under the spell. the pleasantest "talks" are those which have the least in them; the best-remembered interviews are frequently those in which there have been no salient features, of which it would be hardest to render an account,--those in which acquaintance passes into knowledge, and grows into friendship after a strange fashion, distinctly felt, but not to be described. when the transition is not from acquaintance to friendship, but from liking to love, the process is even more difficult of description; and a transition of this kind was taking place in the pretty, if not particularly neat, drawing-room which formed so striking a contrast to the apartment beneath it, in which mr. guyon and robert streightley had held a parley, destined to influence the future fate of katharine and her visitor very materially.

what did they not talk of? that is to say, within the wide range of topics possessing interest for their young light hearts. the festivities performed during the past week, and anticipated for that to come; the prospects of a charitable bazaar, at which miss guyon had kindly consented to take a stall (mr. frere was very happy in his anticipation of the unqualified success of the speculation); the opera répertoires for the season; the last new varieties of flowers at the botanical (miss guyon loved flowers and understood them); the last new novel, and the forthcoming poem by the laureate. then they discussed tennyson in general, and katharine quoted him in particular--an achievement in which gordon frere could not imitate her, his appreciation being vague, though genuine; and katharine "tried over" one or two of the airs which they agreed to prefer among those in fashion just then; and time flew, and the young people felt decidedly happy.

miss guyon played brilliantly; her music had a great deal of the "dash" about it which characterised her appearance and her general demeanour. she was one of those women who do every thing well which they undertake at all, and the finish of her manner extended to all she did. she had another peculiarity; perhaps not a safe or advantageous one in the end, but pleasant and effective then. she could do certain things with impunity which girls in her position, however effectually "come out," could not have attempted. she set conventionality aside when it suited her to do so; but the boldest and most ill-natured critic would never have accused her of outraging it. the men who tempt women into departure from the rules, made and appointed for their conduct and customs by a society more remarkable for suspicion than for intelligence, are precisely those who most severely condemn them for yielding to the temptation. but there was neither guidance nor following in miss guyon's case. she was an exceptional woman, placed in circumstances which are, fortunately, not very common; and she went her own way, and kept, to it unmolested; and if not uncriticised, criticised as little as any one possessing youth, beauty, talent, and individuality of character, could expect to be.

so miss guyon talked to gordon frere, and played for his delectation, and quoted poetry to him, and made herself most agreeable; and his stay prolonged itself much beyond the customary limits of a morning visit; and yet she never felt that this was any thing unusual, or was conscious that her self-possession was beyond that of other girls, or her manner more assured than theirs. she never thought about it at all; she enjoyed the present time and the young man's society; she accredited him with all sorts of social talents and bright congenial tastes; and no suspicion ever occurred to her that he was merely reflecting some of her own readiness, brilliancy, and versatility. and gordon frere, was not "he too in arcadia"? over the girl's whole bearing an indescribable softness, a winning grace was thrown,--the subtle, all-powerful charm created by the desire of pleasing; perhaps the most potent, and frequently the most unconscious, in a woman's possession. she looked her best, she talked her best, the animation of her manner never passing the bounds of perfect refinement, but ever spontaneous and unsubdued; the simple grace of her figure, the sensitive beauty of her face must have touched and warmed a duller man than gordon frere. there was a delicious flattery in her undisguised pleasure in his society which he felt with a subtler sense than he had ever before experienced; for there was no one to share it here. she was shining, she was sparkling for him alone. this was something different, something much more delightful than the ride in the row, or the dance in the ball-room, to which he was tolerably well accustomed, and which he might have gone on enjoying for some time longer without being inspired by the intense admiration which began to possess him as he looked at her, and listened to her, as he recognised the genuine charm of her manner, unspoiled by the faintest tinge of self-consciousness or coquetry.

"do you know much of the city?" katharine said, after a slight pause in their conversation; "do you often go there?"

"no, indeed," said frere; "i seldom have occasion; and my rambles eastwards rarely extend beyond the temple. but why do you ask? do you take an interest in the city?"

"i do," she returned thoughtfully; "i should like to explore it thoroughly for the sake of its present and its past. i have never seen any thing of it since i was a child, and they took me to the tower, and guildhall, and the thames tunnel all on the same day; and i remember nothing but a hideous figure of queen elizabeth, the block--which frightened me--gog and magog, and my own fatigue. i was horribly tired when i came home; and when, on another holiday, they wanted to take me to st. paul's, and told me about the winding stairs and the whispering gallery, i positively declined the proposed diversion. so i have never really seen the city. i drove through a part of it yesterday, and a very dingy part it was too; and i thought how much i should like to see it all and think over it all."

"i don't suppose many people think of it in that way," said mr. frere; "to the world at large it's only a huge counting-house, a busy beehive, a crowd of places where money is to be made, and of men intent on making it."

"but even in that aspect it is very interesting," said katharine; "and in that aspect i was considering it when i looked at the great warehouses and offices, and saw the names whose very sound is golden, the names famous all over the world. but, after all, these people must lead horribly stupid lives, for ever toiling at money-getting. i don't suppose they have time to enjoy spending it when it is made. only fancy how dreadful to have to go to these dingy places every day, and stay there all day long."

"that is true," said gordon frere. "the lives of city men do not seem very enviable, or indeed bearable to us; but there must be a compensation in them. some of them must absolutely like plodding, for they go on with it long after they need not, as a matter of choice."

"do they?" asked katharine in a tone of surprise. "i saw a 'city man' when i was there,--i had a little business to attend to for papa, as he was not at home,--and he had such a settled, business-like look, though he was not at all old. i could not fancy him ever taking any pleasure or amusement, or being like other people--of course, i mean," she added explanatorily, "any of the pleasures of his class."

"o, i suppose not," said frere; "a regular grub, who will be what he will be content to call rich when he's gray and gouty. but they have one consolation, miss guyon: as their business and their pleasure alike consist in money-getting, the one is not purchased at the expense of the other."

"like ours," she said with a laugh, "when we have any business." then she went on again, thoughtfully as before: "i should like to go all through the city. not for the sake of seeing the places where all the money that i have nothing to do with is made; but because so much of our old history was acted out there. i suppose in the city one can get a sight of the old landmarks; and they are certainly not to be found outside it. it is rather odd that every thing that is most dignified connects itself in one's mind with city places, and every thing that is most vulgar with city people. if one could only see it after all the money-grubbers are gone away, and when it is still and quiet in the evenings, as they say it is----"

"and when, accordingly, the most ingenious and charmingly-sensational robberies are perpetrated," said gordon frere, laughing. "well, that is a wish easily gratified. who was the man who always said, when any place was mentioned, 'let's make a party and go'? no matter, we will echo him. i know a man who knows lots of city men, who would be delighted to show you every thing worth seeing; and then there are books, you know, which tell one the history--i was going to say the pedigree--of every place. but i suppose mr. guyon has city acquaintances also?"

gordon frere asked the question inadvertently, and felt rather guilty when he had done so; for he had heard certain rumours which left him in no doubt at all as to the nature of mr. guyon's acquaintance with the far east.

"i daresay he has," replied katharine carelessly; "but i don't know any thing of them. my business was only with a tradesman, a person named streightley, and i have never heard papa mention his business friends."

and then the conversation drifted to other topics, and gordon frere shortly after took his leave. this morning visit had been unlike the ordinary events of his days, and he felt towards katharine guyon as he left her as he had never felt before. and katharine? she had reseated herself at the piano as he left the room, and her fingers had strayed for a few momenta over the keys; then her hands fell idly into her lap, and, in the sunshine of the summer day, unbroken by the stir and noise in the street, there came upon the fair young girl that wonderful waking trance whose vision is "love's young dream."

the trance was broken by the entrance of her father. mr. guyon's manner, always light and airy, was on this occasion lighter and airier than usual. he walked up to the piano, bent over his daughter, and giving her a paternal kiss, said, "who was your visitor, kate?"

not without a repetition of the blush, katharine said, "mr. frere, papa."

"mr. frere!" repeated mr. guyon,--"ay, ay, a good fellow, gordon frere,--a good fellow! wants ballast perhaps!" added he reflectively, as though he himself were provided with more than an average amount of that commodity,--"wants ballast; but that will come. by the way, kate, i've had your city friend of yesterday with me,--mr. streightley."

"indeed, papa!" said katharine carelessly. it was a great descent from gordon frere to the city man, mr. streightley. she rose from the piano as she spoke, and crossed to the mantel-shelf, on which she leaned her arm.

"indeed, papa! yes, and indeed, papa, and no mistake. it's a most remarkable thing, and i can't make it out. you don't understand business matters in detail, but you'll be able to follow me when i tell you that this streightley, who has the name of being a deuced sharp man of business, has behaved to me in a deuced liberal and gentlemanly way--a deuced liberal and gentlemanly way! and what on earth can have been his motive--for of course he had a motive--what on earth can have induced him to show me any special favour, i can't divine."

"can't you, papa?" said miss guyon. she was looking at herself in the glass, pushing back the hair from off her temples. a slight smile curved her lip, and she looked splendidly handsome. mr. guyon, glancing at her, caught the expression reflected in the glass and sprang to his feet.

"by george, kate, i've hit it! the man's in love with you!"

"is he?" said katharine simply. "i noticed him in the park yesterday afternoon, and standing outside the opera last night."

"you're an angel!" said mr. guyon, again performing the paternal salute. "what are you going to do to-morrow?"

"i thought of going to the botanical gardens in the afternoon--it's the last fête of the season."

"you shall go! i'll take you myself! you--you have not asked young frere to call again, have you?"

"no, papa. i----"

"of course. i only wanted to know. don't, until i tell you. and now i must be off. god bless you, my child!"

but though mr. guyon took farewell of his daughter he was not "off" yet; for he spent half an hour in his dressing-room, his head resting on his hand, and his busy mind full of thought.