In real life Marcella would probably before long have been found trying to kick his shins--a mode of warfare of which in her demon moods she was past mistress.

But as Mary Lant described him, she not only bore with and trembled before him--she adored him.

The taste for him and his like, as well as for the story-teller herself--a girl of a tremulous, melancholy fibre, sweet-natured, possessed by a Calvinist faith, and already prescient of death--grew upon her.

Soon her absorbing desire was to be altogether shut up with Mary, except on Sundays and at practising times.

For this purpose she gave herself the worst cold she could achieve, and cherished diligently what she proudly considered to be a racking cough.