To leave the soil of Italy is usually, in the case of Mr. Marion Crawford, to fall to a lower level than that which he has attained in his Roman romances. "Marion Darche" is no exception to the rule. It is a story of New York life; clever, brilliant even, but by no means satisfying. The heroine has made a mistake in choosing her husband. She might have had Harry Brett, the straightforward, true-hearted gentleman; and she has married instead John Darche, the selfish, cold-blooded, scheming speculator.
t half so secretive as you are."
"That does not mean anything. The word secretive is not to be found in any respectable dictionary, nor in any disreputable one either, so far as I know."
"How horrid you are! But it is quite true. Harry Brett is not in the least like you. He says just what he thinks."
"Does he? Lucky man! That is just what I am always trying to do. And he tells you all about the Darches, does he?"
"Oh no! He has never told me anything. But then, he would."
"That is just the same, you know."
"What makes you think there is anything wrong?" asked Vanbrugh, changing his tone and growing serious in his turn.
"So many things--it is dreadful! What o'clock is it?"
"Ten minutes to one."
"Have you time for another turn before I go in?"
"Of course--all the time. We can walk round Gramercy Park and down Irving Place."
Instinctively both were silent as they passed the door of Marion Darche's house and did not resume their conversa