A Novel. BY MRS. ALEXANDER, AUTHOR OF 6 THE WOOING O'T,' 'HER DEAREST FOE,' 'WHICH THE FRERES. CHAPTER I. AX FRERE sat in his private room in the inner recesses of the large premises known as 'Freres', or more correctly, 'Frere and Son's.' He looked and felt considerably older than when we first saw him nearly, very nearly, a year ago. His glance was less rapid and more guarded; his smile rarer and less mocking; his manner a little more considerate ; his cheek less embrowned by the healthy exercise of frequent holidays. Yet the past had been a very successful year with Max. He had, to his father's delight, really thrown his whole mind into business, and soon evinced a rare capacity for it. He had a genius for detail, which yet did not narrow his grasp of broad principles, and was at once bold and prudent-an unusual amalgamation which forms the ideal business man. VOL. III. 42 He began to be known among the 'upper ten of the city, and, though not absolutely popular, was gradually winning a certain degree of respectful liking. Men spoke of him as a rising man, a promising young fellow, etc. All had gone well with him, and he was content so far. But Max was an ambitious man, essentially 'nineteenth century' in all his aims and convictions he had no sort of desire for fine company or social success, such as used to be considered the acme of a 'parvenu's' aspirations. No; he knew that in England, wealth and political weight placed the possessor in an impregnable position, from which he might, in a sense, dictate his own terms. Το attain this position was his fixed purpose; but he was not in a hurry about it. His circumstances were favourable, so was his nature; except that he had, well hidden away, a strong tinge of the epicurean, or perhaps the Sybarite-a keen sense and love of beauty, a fastidious but deep sense of enjoyment; and added to this, quick, warm blood, with a clear head and most firm. will to keep self-indulgence from degenerating into self-injury. To him there was scarce any sacredness in life, except perhaps the rights of property; indeed, in all actual things he had a useful sense of justice. And being cultured and intelligent, he could enjoy poetry, either of the glowing or intellectual order; although of the higher needs of the heart, the softer exigencies of tenderness, he knew nothing— absolutely nothing. But there was no coarseness in Max Frere; his pleasures, even of the more physical sort, were always more or less refined. He had enjoyed himself immensely at Dungar, and had been fascinated beyond his usual self-control by his wild Irish cousin Grace. There was something irresistible to him in the individuality he could not quite master young and inexperienced recluse as she was, there was a degree of fibre in her character, of self-reliant originality, that amazed and piqued him. Then to him her beauty was delicious; some subtle, exquisite attraction existed for him in the satin sheen of her rich brown hair; in the creamy whiteness of her throat; the varying colour of her cheek; the sweet, full lips of a mouth perhaps a trifle too large; and above all, in the big, dark-grey eyes that could look so straight and fearlessly into his; too proud to let themselves sink under the admiration of his glance, unless some good excuse offered for turning away. What glimpses, too, of possible tenderness and passion might be caught through her fire and eagerness on questions of politics-little as she understood them—or history, or adventure. Never had Max been hit so hard, and yet he had never for a moment contemplated marrying this sweet cousin. A sentimental flirtation, to be renewed every shooting season, would have been a delightful addition to the sport; only, Max was almost afraid of himself. And when he found the whole party removed to London, and in that most despicable condition, reduced circumstances,' he resolved with all the force of his will that he would |