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 at present.” She walked across to where he sat, and examined some proofslips lying upon the little table beside the couch. “‘Martin Zeda,’” she said, with a certain high disdain. “Leave ‘Martin Zeda’ alone for once, and read a really cheerful book!”

Leroux forced a smile to his lips.

“The correction of these proofs,” he said diffidently, “exacts no great mental strain, but is sufficient to—distract my mind. Work, after all, is nature’s own sedative.”

“I rather agree with Mr. Leroux, Denise,” said Helen;—“and really you must allow him to know best.”

“Thank you,” said Leroux, meeting her eyes momentarily. “I feared that I was about to be sent to bed like a naughty boy!”

“I hope it’s fine to-morrow,” said Helen rapidly. “A drive to Richmond will be quite delightful.”

“I think, myself,” agreed Leroux, “that it will hasten my recovery to breathe the fresh air once again.”

Knowing how eagerly he longed for health and strength, and to what purpose, the girl found something very pathetic in the words.

“I wish you were well enough to come out this afternoon,” she said; “I am going to a private view at Olaf van Noord’s studio. It is sure to be an extraordinary afternoon. He is the god of the Soho futurists, you know. And his pictures are the weirdest nightmares imaginable. One always meets