CHAPTER III.

Colour-blind from his tenth year, CHAMOIS HYDE (late of Christ's, Oxford, not to be confused with Christchurch, Cambridge), had hitherto ignored details of scenery; but now the vermiliony petal of the pimpernel, the rubicund radix of the carrot, the blue of the insensate bottle-fly--these reminded him respectively of the cheeks of MARGERINE, her hair, the spots in her grey eyes where, as we said, the soul looked through. The harvest-sheaves again were, broadly speaking, her figure.

Till now he had been impervious to the new femalehood, rising like Proteus from the azure foam; dumbly he had waited for a woman with possible potentialities, or, failing this, with potential possibilities.

MARGERINE, whom we left a fortnight ago inarticulately gurgling by the trout-stream, caught the note of a step in the briar-patch. With her budding instinct she could tell her lover's footfall half a mile away, waking the age-echo in her chest. This one was lighter and less gregarious. In her sphinxy way she divined that it belonged to a woman with Puritan impossibilities and a yellow plaster next her heart.

Under a mask of habitual and hereditary reticence, the step came on, revealing a finished creature, gowned beyond all mending. MARGERINE, whose face was her ewe-lamb, became sub-acutely aware of her own half-made frock, and yearned a little in the other's direction.

"Oh!" she said; "how _did_ you get it built that way? I mean the gown." The woman's voice came through the envelope of MARGERINE'S sub-consciousness, steely clear as a cheese-cutter. "My name is Mrs. CHAMOIS HYDE. In other words, I am the wife of Mr. CHAMOIS HYDE!"

"The wife of CHAMOIS HYDE?" said the innocent girl; "I do not follow you."

"Let me explain," said the other, unsparingly. "CHAMOIS HYDE, who is now due at your trout-stream" (MARGARINE smiled stoopingly), "is my husband. I say, he married me. Once I had a maiden name. That is all past. I changed it when I married. All _honourable_ women do. _I_ am honourable. _I_ changed mine. Now I am Mrs. CHAMOIS HYDE. See?"

"Can't help that," said MARGERINE cheerfully; "he loves _me_." This was the folded-lamb's point of view.

"Girl, have you no shame?" This was the other woman's.

"Rather I blush for _you_," said the unfinished creature. "You couldn't make him love you, _you_ couldn't; you're the hankering feminine counterpart of the man in the other book, the _Yellow Plaster_ book. Now it is too late. We love each other. The matter is taken out of our hands. We are merely impassive, irresponsible, agents. Do try and look at the case as I do, from an unbiassed, impersonal, point of view; and see that the fault is utterly your own."

The girl's regard for her lover had suffered no transitional throwing-back at the news of his deception. She was overwhelming with her palpabilities. Ah! it is these that men love--palpabilities. "And have I none?" moaned the unhappy wife. "If I could blush, could only blush! He would have loved me then. But stay, he is colour-blind; I forgot."

"I said just now I would blush _for_ you," replied the other, who had been under the eaves overhearing her thoughts. "And to think of the chances you have missed, and with a gown like that! Why, if you are his wife, you must often have met him about, and not had to make arrangements at a trout-stream like me. Conceivably he has even kissed you. I read once of a married man who kissed his wife." She suddenly stopped; not that one of her intoxicating gutturals had come loose; but an odd flood of pathos was playing on the other's brow as she caught sight of CHAMOIS whistling aloofly behind a sycamore, and went in thought all over that first kiss, complicated, perhaps, perhaps rather billiardy, but still a thing to remember.

Like a cloud the stigma lifted, and MARGERINE guessed her horrid secret. "_You_ love him too? I never thought of that. How forgetful of me! But if _you_ love him and _I_ love him, why, we _both_ love him! This is too much!" For a moment both of them, pulsated even as one tuning-fork. Though sundered by the estranging ocean of the past that had closed its lid between them, leaving them like shuttlecocks, sick with strong doses of womanhood and experience, now that CHAMOIS, steadied by his breeding, was rapidly joining the party, the two women leaned against one another (how seldom women do this!), and waited, containedly restless. But the man, as I said before, comes into the next chapter, if we ever get as far.

* * * * *

TRUE GLORY.

["For assisting in destroying a legend, the Rev. Dr. NICHOLSON, who pulverised IGNATIUS DONNELLY'S celebrated cryptogram, is to be presented with an illuminated address."--_Daily Telegraph_, Nov. 28.]

I've always been courageous, in a modest sort of way, And sought an opportunity my valour to display, There's nothing I'd like better than to lead a conquering host, If STEVENSON or CONAN DOYLE would offer me a post.

But, in real life, such chances are extremely hard to find. They disregard the model, too, you've carefully designed, For if a foe--a burglar, say--you venture to attack, The disagreeable scoundrel's rather apt to hit you back.

But here's a way--it's safer far, as you will soon confess,-- To have your courage recognised and praised in an Address; It's a sort of learned skittles, and the method of it's plain-- You gravely set a dummy up, and knock it down again.

Just get a friend to postulate that TENNYSON'S a sham, That MARTIN TUPPER wrote the whole of _In Memoriam_, Or else, that ROBERT BROWNING'S greatest work was _Nancy Lee_, And then--_you prove your friend is wrong_--and there you are, you see.

They'll give you testimonials, many speakers will allude In tones of deep emotion to "a nation's gratitude"; So if you sigh for glory, I can recommend the game, For literary ninepins is a speedy path to fame!

* * * * *

NEW HONOURS.

Last week Solicitor-General FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., was knighted. So was the High Sheriff of Surrey, Mr. FRED WIGAN. Quite appropriate that Queen's Counsel LOCKWOOD should appear with Wig-an'--the gown too, of course. After this J. WEEKS SZLUMPER was made a knight, and has now another "s" added to his name. All hail, Sir SZLUMPER, or "Zir ZLUMPER!" As the ex-mayor of Richmond quitted (backwards) the Royal Presence, did a concealed choir sing a verse of the ancient ballad commencing "Slumber my darling," and for this occasion altered to

"SZLUMPER my darling!"

* * * * *

LATEST WAR INTELLIGENCE.

In the House of Commons, and elsewhere, the SECRETARY OF STATE FOR WAR is accustomed to have appeals made to him to assist in providing facilities for the engagement and remunerative occupation of soldiers and non-commissioned officers no longer on active service. We are glad to notice, from the subjoined advertisement, which appeared in the _Daily News_ of Thursday, that the public are themselves taking the matter in hand:--

TWO GENERALS WANTED, as Cook and Housemaid, for one lady. Light, comfortable situation. Good wages.--Apply, &c.

The advertiser, it will be observed, flies at higher rank than that usually considered in this connection. But the situation is "light" and "comfortable," with "good wages" pertaining, and she has some right to look for applicants of superior station. We presume that on festive occasions the gallant officers would be expected to don their uniforms. Few things would be more striking than to see a general, probably wearing his war medals, sweeping the front doorstep, whilst through the kitchen window a glimpse was caught of a brother officer, in full tog, larding a pheasant.

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]