“Perhaps,” he suggested, “she thinks that absolute simplicity suits her best.  She has a nice figure.”

Selina tossed her much-beaded slipper impatiently.

“Heaven only knows what Mary does think,” she exclaimed, impatiently.

“And Heaven only knows what I am to say about these,” Brooks groaned inwardly, as the sketch-book fell open before him at last, and its contents were revealed to his astonished eyes.

CHAPTER III

KINGSTON BROOKS HAS A VISITOR

Kingston Brooks was twenty-five years old, strong, nervous, and with a strenuous desire to make his way so far as was humanly possible into the heart of life.  He was a young solicitor recently established in Medchester, without friends save those he was now making, and absolutely without interest of any sort.  He had a small capital, and already the beginnings of a practice.  He had some sort of a reputation as a speaker, and was well spoken of by those who had entrusted business to him.  Yet he was still fighting for a living when this piece of luck had befallen him.  Mr. Bullsom had entrusted a small case to him, and found him capable and cheap.  Amongst that worthy gentleman’s chief characteristics was a decided weakness for patronizing younger and less successful men, and he went everywhere with Kingston Brooks’ name on his lips.  Then came the election, and the sudden illness of Mr. Morrison, who had always acted as agent for the Radical candidates for the borough.  Another agent had to be found.  Several who would have been suitable were unavailable.  An urgent committee meeting was held, and Mr. Bullsom at once called attention to an excellent little speech of Kingston Brooks’ at a ward meeting on the previous night.  In an hour he was closeted with the young lawyer, and the affair was settled.  Brooks knew that henceforth the material side of his career would be comparatively easy sailing.

He had accepted his good fortune with something of the same cheerful philosophy with which he had seen difficulty loom up in his path a few months ago.  But to-night, on his way home from Mr. Bullsom’s suburban residence, a different mood possessed him.  Usually a self-contained and somewhat gravely minded person, to-night the blood went tingling through his veins with a new and unaccustomed warmth.  He carried himself blithely, the cool night air was so grateful and sweet to him that he had no mind even to smoke.  There seemed to be no tangible reason for the change.  The political excitement, which a few weeks ago he had begun to feel exhilarating, had for him decreased now that his share in it lay behind the scenes, and he found himself wholly occupied with the purely routine work of the election.  Nor was there any sufficient explanation to be found in the entertainment which he had felt himself bound to accept at Mr. Bullsom’s hands.  Of the wine, which had been only tolerable,