"No; he had to go home at once for his examination."

"I dare say he'll come over again soon, my dear," said that discriminating lady. She had quite taken Goneril back into her good graces.

They all sat together in the little parlour after dinner. At eight o'clock the door-bell rang. It was now seven weeks since Goneril had blushed with excitement when first she heard that ring; and now she did not blush.

The signorino entered. He walked very straight, and his lips were set.

He came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition.

"Mees Goneril," he said, "will you come out on the terrace?--before it is too late," he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty.

"Yes," said Goneril, and they went out together.

"So the cousin did not come?" said the signorino.

"No."

They went on a little way in silence together. The night was moonlit and clear; not a wind stirred the leaves; the sky was like a sapphire, containing but not shedding light. The late oleanders smelt very sweet; the moon was so full that one could distinguish the peculiar greyish-pink of the blossoms.

"It is a lovely night!" said Goneril.

"And a lovely place."

"Yes."

Then a bird sang.

"You have been here just eight weeks," said the signorino.

"I have been very happy."

He did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said:--

"Would you like to live here always?"

"Ah, yes! But that is impossible."

He took her hand and turned her gently so that her face was in the light.

"Dear Mees Goneril, why is it impossible?"

For a moment the young girl did not answer. She blushed very red and looked brave.

"Because of Jack!" she said.

"Ah!"

"Nothing is settled," added the young girl, "but it is no use pretending not to know!"

"It is no use," he repeated very sadly.

And then for a little while they listened to the bird.

"Mees Goneril," said the signorino at last, "do you know why I brought you out here?"

"Not at all," she answered.

It was a minute before he spoke again.

"I am going to Rome to-morrow," he said, "and I wanted to bid you good-bye. You will sing to me to-night, as it will be the last time?"

"Oh, I hope not the last time!"

"Yes, yes," he said a little testily; "unless--and I pray it may not be so--unless you ever need the help of an old friend."

"Dear Signor Graziano!"

"And now you will sing me my 'n.o.bil Amore'?"

"I will do anything you like!"

The signorino sighed and looked at her for a minute. Then he led her into the little parlour where Madame Petrucci was singing shrilly in the twilight.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

OUT OF THE SEASON.

"But why not? There isn't a soul in London--who's to see? What harm is there in it?"

"Oh, none of course--a cup of tea is a cup of tea, and whether you drink it here or there, what matter!--only--well, the thing I think of is, would Rowley mind?"

"Mind his own business, I should say, rather I That's what they have to swear to do in the marriage service, haven't they?"

The lady to whom this question was addressed, Mrs. Rowley Dacres, shook her head reprovingly. She was young and very pretty; and Teddy Vere--known among certain of his friends as the Fledgeling--was not averse to seeing her make a pretence of being angry.

"Don't let me hear you speak so flippantly of matrimony," she began severely; "and for your future edification, it is not the man but the _woman_ who swears to obey."

"Then why in Heaven's name don't you do as I bid you?"

"As _you_ bid me! Come, that's rather strong form, I must say! You're not Rowley, are you?"

"No, worse luck for me, I'm not," and the good-looking fair face put on such an intensely woebegone expression that the resolution of the beholder gave way.

Poor boy! it really was dreadfully unlucky that be should be so desperately in love with her, more especially since Rowley had taken to be absurdly jealous of him, as if--now that she was married--she could ever think seriously of anybody. Only after you'd been brought up--to cut your teeth, as one might say--flirting, well, it was just a little bit hard to give it up at twenty-three. Besides, it wasn't as if she meant anything--except in Rowley's case she never had; and as far as Teddy went, scores of mothers had said before her, dozens of times, that they were only too delighted to see their sons attach themselves to a married lady--it kept them out of harm's way; so that instead of mischief, it was a service she was doing Teddy. The two had been of the same party during Goodwood week. Teddy had joined them after on board Lord Datchett's yacht at Cowes; and, his leave up, and he forced to stop in London during the end of August, what more natural than that when she came up to town for a few days' shopping, Teddy should offer to act escort to her?--it was such a pleasure to him, poor fellow! And as there wasn't a single soul left to see them, what harm could there be!