young friend—a state of things only partly satisfactory to her so long as the advantage accruing to Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the cold mists of theory. She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I may here parenthesise, and of course the question can't come up to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy has not married, I hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw he had immediately connected my inquiry with the talk we had had in the railway carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his eagerness were not yet cold. I told him there was something I thought I ought in candour to let him know—I recognised the obligation his friendly confidence had laid upon me.
"You mean that Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so herself," he said.
"It was not to tell so that I wanted to see you," I replied; "for it seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told you that I was discouraging."
"Discouraging?"
"On the subject of a present application of the Coxon Fund."
"To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don't know what you call discouraging!" Gravener exclaimed.
"Well, I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was."
"I believe she did, but such a thing is measured by the effect. She's not discouraged."
"That's her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me
