had to answer it, nevertheless. Of course I could only tell the truth.

“I’ve only got two hundred and fifty pounds a-year of my own at present, Mrs Clyde,” I said; “but—”

“Two—hundred—a-year!”—she said, interrupting me ere I could finish my statement, placing a horribly sneering emphasis on each word, which made the sum mentioned appear so paltry and insignificant, that it struck me with shame.—“I beg your pardon—two hundred and fifty! Why, how young you are, Mr Lorton. Do you really think you could support a wife and establishment on that income? I thought you were joking, my dear young friend,”—she added—“you know it would barely pay your tailor’s bill!”

And she looked at me from head to foot with her merciless quizzing eyes, taking in all the elaborateness of the apparel that I had donned for her personal subjugation.

“You have not heard me out, Mrs Clyde,” I answered, spurred upon my mettle.—“I am not quite dependent on that income. I also write for the press!”

I said this quite grandly, on the strength of my contributing an occasional magazine article at stray intervals to one of the current periodicals—getting one accepted for every dozen that were “declined with thanks;” and, being the “musical critic” of a very weakly weekly!

“O–oh, indeed!” she exclaimed.

There was a most aggravating tone of pity mingled with her surprise.

She evidently now looked upon me as more presumptuous than ever, and hopelessly beyond the pale of her social circle!

“And how much,”—she asked, in a patronising way which galled me to the quick,—“do you derive from this source? That is, if you will kindly excuse my saying so? The proposal which you have done my daughter and myself the honour to suggest, necessitates my making such delicate inquiries, you know.”

“I do not earn very much by my pen, as yet, Mrs Clyde,” I answered—“but, I hope to do more in a little time, when my name gets recognised. I’m only a beginner as yet.”

“Well, if you would take my advice, Mr Lorton, you would remain so. I’ve heard it frequently said by some of your penny-a-liners—I believe that is what you literary gentlemen call yourselves—that, authorship reaps very poor pay. It makes a very good stick, but a bad crutch; and I don’t think you can expect to increase your 

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