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CHAPTER XIII
THE SERIOUS SIDE OF MISS FITZGERALD'S NATURE

It may have been contrition for her shortcomings which induced Miss Fitzgerald to offer her services to the Reverend Reginald Lambert to assist in decorating the altar of the little church for the ensuing Sunday, and it may not. At any rate, she did offer them, and they were gratefully accepted.

She was dressed in a garb which would have befitted a postulant for a religious order, and her sweet seriousness, and altogether becoming demeanour, charmed the Reverend Reginald.

The old parson was, it is needless to say, a thorough nonentity, and the skilful attentions of his fair assistant were the more appreciated, because the more rare.

"It's very kind of you, my dear," he said, "to give so much of your time to helping an old man."

"I'm afraid I don't give up half enough. I think we should give ourselves to the serious side of life at least for a little while every week, don't you? We are so apt to devote ourselves to frivolities."

"I'm very glad to hear you say that. Young people are none too serious nowadays; but I'm sure you're too strong a nature to be wholly frivolous."

"I'm afraid not, but I often do things I don't care for, to keep myself from thinking. My life hasn't been all a bed of roses, Mr. Lambert."

"You surprise me," he said, sitting down in the front pew to get a better view of their united arrangement of potted plants. "That's very pretty, my dear. Now come and sit by me, and tell me all about it, and if an old man's advice – "

"Oh, I do so want advice," she said. "You can't realise what the life I lead means to a girl – my parents are both dead, you know."

"Yes, poor child. I remember; Mrs. Roberts told me. How sad!"

"I've no settled home – I knock about. I try my best, I do indeed, Mr. Lambert; but with no one to advise me – no older woman than myself who really cares – it is at times very hard."

"But you've relatives – Mrs. Roberts."

"Yes, of course, they're very kind, and all that; but a young girl needs far more than what she could ask of a remote relative. She needs watchful care, constant protection. You've had a daughter, Mr. Lambert."

"Yes, yes, I know. My dear Mary was a model girl, Miss Fitzgerald; a good child is a great blessing. I see your position."

"I'm sure you do. Try as one may, a young girl has not that experience which comes with age, her best efforts are sometimes misinterpreted – I've suffered keenly myself."

"My poor child," said the old rector, patting her hand in a fatherly manner. "My poor child! You yourself see the need of a guiding hand."

"I do, I do. Having no one to fight life's battle for me, I've become of necessity self-reliant."

"Of course, of course."

"It has been misinterpreted, misunderstood. I've been called – hard; worse – I've been thought – " Her voice broke.

"My dear child," said the old man, "you'll forgive my speaking plainly, but you should be married. You need a husband. Someone who will take the responsibility from you."

Miss Fitzgerald breathed a contented little sigh, and her bowed head leaned, oh, so lightly, against his shoulder!

"I hoped you would say that," she murmured.

"Is there someone – then – someone you love? You rejoice me exceedingly."

Resuming a more erect posture, she said earnestly:

"Tell me, Mr. Lambert, would you ever consent to perform a marriage – quietly – very quietly – say, with the knowledge of only the contracting parties and witnesses?"

"If there were good and sufficient reasons. Of course, if the young lady's parents were living, I should wish to be assured of their consent first."

"Oh!" murmured Miss Fitzgerald.

"But, in your own case, if you really wished it, though it seems unnecessary, I could make some such arrangement as you suggest, because no one would be affected but yourself, though if a large estate or title was involved it would be a very different matter."

His companion thought long and deeply; then, looking up at him, she said:

"Would you, would you, dear Mr. Lambert, accept my word for it that silence is necessary?"

"I – yes. I suppose so. But, Mrs. Roberts?"

"I can assure you that Mrs. Roberts approves of my marrying; but – " and she laid her finger on her lips.

"Well, as you please; but remember the responsibility rests with you; then there would have to be witnesses."

"I could promise that Lady Isabelle McLane would be present, and the best man would be the other."

"Quite so – but – when would you wish the ceremony to take place?"

"Say Sunday."

"But, my dear young lady – there are the fifteen days required by law – unless, of course, you have a special licence."

"Perhaps there is a special licence."

"Of course in that case everything is easy – but do nothing rash. Marriage is a most solemn covenant, and I should strongly advise that you speak to Mrs. Roberts. Indeed, I hardly know if I – "

"I have your word, Mr. Lambert. I'll come to you to-morrow, may I? and you'll talk to me earnestly, very earnestly, about it all. It will be decided then – and if I should wish it before early service Sunday morning, you would help me, I know. But remember, it's a secret, and oh, you're so kind!" And taking his hand, she kissed it.

"But, my dear," stammered the old man, quite flustered by this unexpected mark of affection, "you haven't even told me the gentleman's name."

Bending over, she whispered softly, "Lieutenant Kingsland," and fled out of the church.

In the light of the events of the morning, Miss Fitzgerald was naturally desirous of becoming better acquainted with the appearance of a special licence, and in the seclusion of the billiard-room, Lieutenant Kingsland was able to gratify her curiosity.

"Quite an expensive luxury, I've been given to understand," she said reflectively, regarding the parchment.

"Yes," admitted Kingsland regretfully, "it means a special messenger to the Archbishop, wherever he may happen to be. He never's by any chance at 'Lambeth' when you want him, and fees all along the line."

"A matter of forty pounds, I've been told."

"Well, call it thirty. I know the crowd."

"I shouldn't have suspected you of being ecclesiastical."

"It's a long story, and not to the point. Now, what have you done?"

"Considering that you were thoughtful enough to procure that licence, I've done everything."

"Bravo! When can the ceremony take place?"

"Before early service Sunday morning, say a quarter to eight."

"The sooner the better. I'm a thousand times obliged. You're a little brick, and I shall never forget it."

"I shall ask for a return some day," she said.

"And you shall have it, no matter what. Is there nothing more?"

"Only this. You know Mr. Lambert is somewhat aged, very blind – don't forget that – and a trifle deaf; so, though I assure you I never said so, I'm quite sure he is under the impression that you're going to marry – me."

"But I don't understand."

"Mr. Lambert informed me that in the case of a person of importance, or one whose parents were living, he couldn't perform the ceremony privately – that is, as privately as you would wish; but as regarded myself, an orphan – you see?"

"But the name?"

"Are we not both Isabelles? Besides, he is old, and deaf, and nearly blind, and the bride and I will both be closely veiled, under the circumstances. If we should appear to have signed our names in the wrong places in the registry – why, it's a stupid blunder that any one might make on such a trying occasion."

"But how account for Lady Isabelle's presence?"

"He asked me concerning the witnesses, and I promised that her Ladyship would be there. As for the other?"

"My best man will serve."

"Who is he?"

Kingsland laughed.

"Wait and see," he said. "He's an old friend of yours. Anything else?"

"Yes, two things. Keep a still tongue in your head, and have the bride there to the minute."

"I promise. Belle, you're the best friend a man ever had."

"Not at all. I'm only doing you a service – for a service in return."

"What is that?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; but any woman who lives the life I do is sure, some day, to want a friend who is sufficiently in her debt – to – well, do anything that may be needful. You understand?"

"Done!" he cried, and wrung her hand.

"Oh, by the way," she added, "I've given the Marchioness her tip, and I don't imagine Jimsy's life will be worth living in consequence."

"Couldn't you help to make it a little more bearable – for instance?" insinuated the Lieutenant.

"It takes two to make a bargain of that sort," she returned.

"All right," he said, laughing. "I'll see that Little Diplomacy gets a steer in your direction," and he started to leave the room.

"No; I forbid you to do anything of the sort," she called after him.

CHAPTER XIV
THE SERIOUS SIDE OF THE SECRETARY'S NATURE

In virtue of his good resolution to point out to Miss Fitzgerald the error of her ways, the Secretary had been nerving himself to an interview with her on this delicate question, and as result, when he found himself alone with Lieutenant Kingsland in the smoking-room after dinner that evening, both were silent. Each had something to think about, yet each was thinking about the same thing. The Secretary abstractedly wondering how he was to commence the awkward interview which was staring him in the face; while the young officer, relying on the axiom that "a woman never says what she means," was pondering over the best way in which to go to work upon his companion, in order to induce him to open his heart to the lady in question.

"I say, Stanley," he remarked, "do you know Bob Darcy?"

"Darcy? No, I don't think so."

"Why, he's the chap whose wife chaperoned your little dinner that night at the Hyde Park Club, when Lady Rainsford failed you."

"No, I don't know him. Do you?"

"I – oh, very slightly – I assure you – never exchanged more than half a dozen words with him in my life."

"I thought you seemed pretty well acquainted at Lady Rainsford's tea."

"I" – faltered the young man – "I think you're mistaken."

Stanley smiled quietly, as the nature of the conversation he had overheard came back to his mind – he was getting on.

"I'm afraid," he remarked, "that your friend doesn't attract me. What did you wish to say about him?"

"Only that he's awfully gone on Belle Fitzgerald, means business, and all that – lucky dog – I think he'll win hands down," and Lieutenant Kingsland heaved a sigh.

"But he's married, surely?"

"Oh, yes, I believe he is – but it hasn't been an unqualified success. I understand there's a divorce in the air, and after that – of course – "

"He's treated his wife like a brute!" spluttered Stanley.

"Don't know, I'm sure. He's a jolly good fellow at the club. Any way, he'd put a job with Belle to do the platonic under Mrs. Roberts' protecting roof for a week or two, when what does our hostess do but cut up rusty about his marital infelicities, and refuse to invite him. Rather a sell on the little Fitzgerald, eh?"

"I'll be obliged to you if you'll mention Miss Fitzgerald more respectfully in my presence. She's a lady for whom I have the highest consideration, and who would, I'm sure, if she knew what I know of Colonel Darcy, cut him off from her list of acquaintances immediately. I hope you'll not feel called upon to speak of this more than is necessary," and he rose stiffly and left the room.

Kingsland rolled over on the divan, on which he was sprawled out, and indulged in a fit of hearty laughter.

"Gad! how he rose to the bait!" he roared. "I supposed Darcy was too old a story to tempt anyone with; but the world's after all a very small place." And this, curiously enough, was precisely the reflection which the Secretary made ruefully to himself, as he sought the captivating Belle.

As can be understood in the light of that interview in the smoking-room, the two gentlemen were late in arriving upstairs, and when Stanley did put in an appearance, Miss Fitzgerald required all her courage to dare to claim him as her exclusive property and carry him off to the comparative seclusion of the conservatory, for black care sat heavy on his brow, and her interview promised to be anything but agreeable. However, she was nothing if not courageous, and opened the attack at once, on the ground that the defensive is always the weakest position.

"What an old bear you are to-night, Jimsy. I couldn't get a word out of you at dinner, and now you look as glum as if you'd lost your last friend."

"I've been talking to Lieutenant Kingsland," he said bluntly.

"Dear me, if it always has as bad an effect I must contrive to keep you two apart in the future."

"He's been telling me about your relations with Darcy. Confound it, Belle! – it's too bad of you! Why, he's a beastly cad. I wouldn't have him in my house, and to think that the woman I – well, any woman I respect as much as I do you – should be on intimate terms with a man like that, makes my blood boil. Great Heavens, have some consideration for your friends, if you haven't for yourself! Think of what will be said of you; think – "

"Don't do the heroic, Jimsy, it doesn't become you," she interrupted. "Give me a cigarette, and see if you can't talk this matter over without going all to tatters."

"You smoke too much. I don't approve of ladies smoking. It seems so common."

"Nonsense. It's uncommon not to. I'm dying for a whiff, and one never gets a chance in that crowd of old fogies. Thank you – now what's all this disturbance about Colonel Darcy? I declare, I almost believe you are becoming an old fogy yourself."

"I didn't even know you knew him – Darcy, I mean – I object to him strongly."

"Really, Mr. Stanley, I don't run my acquaintances on the lines of your choosing."

"Of course not; but I may claim the privilege of a friend."

"To make yourself uncommonly disagreeable; I suppose you may – and I was feeling so amiable too – just in the mood for an old-time chat. But it can't be helped. Colonel Darcy's an old friend, and was very kind to me at a time when I needed friends and hadn't many. I don't know what he has done or not done, and I don't care. I learned that he was to be in this neighbourhood shortly on business, and, wishing to make some return for his past kindness, I proposed to my aunt to invite him here, and she, who's a woman after your own heart, refused – because, forsooth, he didn't get on well with his wife – as if his wife mattered to me – I certainly didn't want to invite her."

"I assure you," burst out the Secretary, "that she's a most charming woman, and that her husband has treated her like the cad and brute he is."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Stanley. I didn't know you were posing as the knight-errant of hysterical wives."

"I'm not; but I can't stand by and see a lovely and innocent woman injured."

"I presume I'm not to defend my friend?" she asked, her small foot tapping the tiled floor in anger.

"You would not wish to do so if you knew his true character."

"I do not wish to prolong this interview, Mr. Stanley. I must remind you that there are limits even to the rights of friendship, and you have overstepped them."

"I fear I've forgotten myself, that I've been too vehement. I humbly beg your pardon. I won't trespass again, believe me. I only spoke for your good – indeed, I wanted to have a serious talk with you about yourself; but the spirit in which you receive my suggestions makes it impossible."

"You mustn't say that," she replied, more quietly than she had hitherto spoken. "But you can surely understand that my friendship would be of little use to any man if I stood quietly by and let him be denounced without a word of resentment on my part. Are there other of my friends of whom you do not approve?"

"It's partly that, but rather the – you'll pardon me – the things that are said about you, Belle. People – my friends – men as well as women – have said things in my presence – that I did not like to hear. Things that show how easy it is for a careless, easy-going nature like yours to be misinterpreted; in short – "

"In short, they told you I was fast, I suppose, a sordid, scheming, money-making wretch. Is that correct?"

"Really, Belle!"

"Is that correct? Answer me."

"Well, they certainly wouldn't have used such words in my presence."

"But they meant that – or something like it?"

"I'm afraid they did."

Her face, white enough before, flushed red, as she demanded:

"And you! What did you say?"

"I – I don't remember – I refused to listen; but I made up my mind to speak to you – I thought you ought to know."

"You" – she cried, turning on him in a fury – "you, my friend, as you call yourself, had no answer to make, did nothing, except to decide to lecture me about what you should have known to be a lie! Let me tell you, Mr. Stanley, you'd have done better to defend me – knowing, as you must know, the slights, the buffets, the insults I've had to endure, because I'm unprotected, and men can dare – "

"I assure you I did. I didn't believe it of you for an instant."

"You believed it enough to question me as to the truth of these accusations. It's easy to preach prudence when you've nothing to gain or lose; but were you a woman, thrown on the world and on her own resources, you'd find it a different, a very different, thing, and you'd expect help and encouragement from friends who are stronger and more fortunate than you – not this!" and she burst into tears.

"Miss Fitzgerald! – Belle!" he cried, striving to take her hand, "I wouldn't have pained you in this way for worlds! Believe me, I'm your friend, your true friend!"

"I've friends enough of your sort," she sobbed, "too many."

"But at least let me explain."

"Don't say any more, please – you've said enough. Good night, you must excuse me. I – I'm not myself," and touching her handkerchief to her eyes, with a great effort she controlled herself and left the conservatory.

CHAPTER XV
THE SECRETARY'S INTENTIONS

Roberts' Hall preserved the good old English custom concerning breakfast – which means that a rambling meal extended from eight to eleven in the morning – at which the butler served you with tea, or coffee and rolls, and you served yourself to the rest, from the cold cuts on the sideboard to the hot viands in copper vessels warmed by alcohol lamps. The cold cuts you had always with you, also the orange marmalade; as for the eggs and bacon, devilled kidneys, etc., their state was dependent on the taste of the guests who had preceded you, and your own ability as an early riser. You came down when you pleased, and ate your meal in solitary state or in any company that might happen to be present, which, if it proved to be congenial, made a very jolly, informal repast, and if it didn't, – well, that was fate, and you had to submit to it. Fate may be kind or it may not, sometimes it sets out to play ponderous practical jokes, which may include something nearly akin to a grim reality in the future for the persons involved.

This was probably the reason why Stanley, on his advent into the breakfast-room, found it tenanted by only one person, and that one, Lady Isabelle.

At the sight of her, the Secretary felt decidedly sheepish, because Miss Fitzgerald's tears and some subsequent hours of sleepless meditation thereon had convinced him that he was morally, if not actually, capable of all the weakness for which her Ladyship had upbraided him. He told himself that he owed a duty to the fair Belle, that he must save her from herself at all costs, even if it involved the sacrifice of his own future, that he had misjudged her cruelly, and that he was very, very sorry for her, and that, because he was conscience-stricken, he was certainly in love. Indeed he kept assuring himself with feverish insistence, that this must be the real article.

To Lady Isabelle, on the contrary, Stanley's deficiencies were almost lost sight of, in view of the disturbing suspicion that that young gentleman might be led to suppose that her well-meant interference in his affairs had proceeded from an undue regard for himself. A suspicion but a few hours old, and dating from an interview with the Marchioness, who, for some unknown reason, had suddenly assumed a totally different attitude towards the Secretary, and even tried to entrap her daughter into admitting that his attentions might mean something. This made Lady Isabelle most anxious to impress him with the fact that their friendship was purely platonic. Accordingly, to his intense surprise, she was exceedingly gracious, and chatted away all through breakfast in a charmingly easy, if somewhat feverish, manner, even condescending so far as to say something pleasant about Miss Fitzgerald. Under this treatment Stanley simply glowed, and opened out as much as he dared in the presence of the butler and two expressionless footmen, upon that lady's charms. He was a very young diplomat, as the reader will have noticed ere this, or he would not have continued to praise one lady to another; least of all at breakfast time, an hour when the temper of mortals is by no means certain. But in the pleasure of his subject he did not notice the scorn that was suggested by the curl of his vis-à-vis' lip.

"I do wish," he said in conclusion, "that you'd take a stroll with me this afternoon; the deer park is quite worth seeing, I understand, and besides there are lots of things I want to talk to you about."

It was during this proposition that Lieutenant Kingsland, preceded by the Dowager, entered the breakfast-room.

"Oh, I say," blurted out that officer, "I think we've got an appointment after lunch, haven't we?"

"I think not, Lieutenant Kingsland," replied Lady Isabelle, foreseeing the crisis, and realising the necessity of immediate action. Then turning to Stanley, she added: —

"Thanks, I should enjoy a good walk hugely, and I love deer. It was very kind of you to suggest it. What time shall we start?"

"Say three o'clock," said the Secretary, immensely rejoiced at his restoration to favour.

"Three, let it be then, if mamma approves."

It was only too evident that mamma did approve; she nodded and smiled, and said that exercise was a splendid thing for young people; till Stanley became frightened at her excessive geniality, and Kingsland looked black as a thunder-cloud.

The Lieutenant was not, however, so easily baffled, and jumped to the conclusion that half of Lady Isabelle was better than no Lady Isabelle at all.

"Three's not company, I know," he said, laughing with attempted gaiety, "but I'm no end fond of deer myself."

"I was about to ask you, Lieutenant Kingsland," interrupted the Dowager, coming promptly to the rescue, "to execute a few commissions for me this afternoon, at Tunbridge Wells. I'm sure our hostess will put a dog-cart at your service, and it's not above fifteen miles."

"Charmed, I'm sure," replied the Lieutenant – but he did not look it. However, he had his reward, for Lady Isabelle had just finished her breakfast, and Kingsland declared he had already had his, which was not true, so they disappeared together and left the Dowager to enjoy her repast in the company of the Secretary, to whom she was so extremely affable, that, had it not been for his instructions, he would have had serious thoughts of leaving for London, before he was appropriated body and soul.

"What have you been telling my mother about Mr. Stanley?" asked Lady Isabelle of the Lieutenant, in the seclusion of the library. "I know you had a long conference with her last night – and something must have happened."

"I'm sure I don't know, unless it was that he's a millionaire, and made his money, or had it made for him, in some beastly commercial way – sugar, I think."

Lady Isabelle gave him one look, and remarked with a depth of scorn which even the unfortunate Secretary had not evoked: —

"Oh, you idiot!"

Kingsland was immersed in literature the entire morning in company with Lady Isabelle, who doubtless found the Lieutenant's companionship a great comfort, under the circumstances, since now that she knew the reason of her mother's attitude towards the Secretary, she was as anxious to avoid the walk with him, as she had previously been willing to take it.

Kingsland, however, bore up bravely, for his trip to the Wells gave him an opportunity to settle several little matters of business, which the Dowager, had she known of them, would hardly have approved. Moreover, Belle saw him off, saying as he mounted the dog-cart: —

"Don't be upset by Lady Isabelle's defection this afternoon, Jack; the most trustworthy little mare will sometimes jib, just before taking a desperate leap."

When two people start out on a long walk together, each with the firm intention of doing his duty by the other, the result is apt to be far from pleasant; but in this case both had so much to talk about that for the first hour of their walk they said nothing, and their arrival at the deer-park was a distinct relief, since it furnished a new and harmless subject for discussion. And, indeed, the pretty animals warranted more than a passing word. They were seen in numbers, peeping out of a fringe of woodland across the width of an uncultivated field, and they were in that delightful state of semi-tameness, when a longing for the bits of bread, with which Stanley and Lady Isabelle were well supplied, battled equally with an impulse, born of natural training, to flee the proximity of the human race.

But there was not much going in the line of food, and so gradually, step by step, the most daring of the herd ventured into the open, and slowly approached the visitors, who were wise enough to throw tempting bits about twelve feet away from them. Watchful to note the slightest movement of a muscle, the bread was at length secured, and the herd scampered away in a panic of fear, only to return for more, thrown nearer the feet of their friends. So it was at last, with advances of six feet and retreats of as many yards, at the crackling of a bush or a change in the wind, that the most adventurous consented, standing as far aloof as possible, and stretching their necks to the last degree of tension, to take the bread from the visitors' hands.

But finally even the charms of the deer were exhausted, and as they turned about and began slowly to stroll homeward across the park, Lady Isabelle abruptly broached the subject which both of them had nearest at heart.

"I'm afraid," she began, "that I'm very prone to order the lives of my friends, from my own point of view."

"My life, for instance?" he asked.

"Mr. Stanley," she said, "I shan't be really happy till I have apologised for the way I spoke at Lady Rainsford's tea. I'd no right to do so, and I'm sure my judgment was hasty and ill-advised. I've been trusting to my eyes and ears rather than to the reports of other people, and I'm sure I've been mistaken. Do you know how Miss Fitzgerald spent part of yesterday?"

"I have not seen her to speak with to-day."

"Then I'll tell you. She was helping poor old Mr. Lambert trim the church for to-morrow. I think it was very nice of her."

"I'm afraid your commendation has come a trifle late. The fact is, I took it upon myself to counsel the young lady in question against a friend of hers – a Colonel Darcy."

"Not Colonel Robert Darcy?"

"The same."

"Do you know him?" she asked.

"No, but I know how he treats his wife, and his own character is none too good."

"It's curious," she said, a trifle sadly, "but I'm in just your position in regard to a dear friend of mine, and concerning the same man."

"Concerning Colonel Darcy?"

"Yes."

"And his intimacy with Lieutenant Kingsland?"

"How did you know?"

"'He that hath eyes to see – '" quoted the Secretary.

"They never even knew each other till a short time ago, but in the last few weeks they've been constantly together. I can't understand it."

Mr. Stanley thought he could, but forbore to say so.

"I don't know why I distrust Colonel Darcy, but I do," she continued, "and his sudden intimacy with Jack – Lieutenant Kingsland – makes me apprehensive. Do you think – "

"I think your friend is of too pliable a nature to be in the hands of so unscrupulous a rascal."

She sighed, and then feeling perhaps that she had said too much, hastened to revert to their original subject, saying:

"Don't tell me there's a misunderstanding between you and Miss Fitzgerald. I'm so sorry. I wouldn't for the world – that is, I almost feel as if I'd been to blame."

"You're not the only one of my friends who has misjudged her – I've done so myself – utterly."

"But surely this little difference will not be lasting – I hoped – "

"Would you wish me to marry Miss Fitzgerald, Lady Isabelle?"

"Well, perhaps I won't say that – but I should certainly not wish anything I might have said to prevent you from so doing. Of course, my only reason for interfering was prompted by a wish for your happiness."

"Do you think you understand what that comprises?"

"That's just the point I wanted to make clear," she said hastily, determined that he must understand, even at the expense of a slight indiscretion on her part, which she felt would be far preferable to the slightest misunderstanding of their relative positions, in view of any future action of her mother's.

"You see," she continued, "to put it frankly, what could I possibly know of the requirements which, in a woman, would go to make you happy. Of course, you and I are friends, great friends; but just that state of affairs, as far as we're concerned, makes any judgment of mine useless concerning the kind of woman you could love."

Stanley, who could scarcely help drawing his own inferences, was piqued that she should have felt it necessary to batter a self-evident fact into his brain in such a bald manner.

"I wish," he said, "that her Ladyship, your mother, was possessed of the same lucid views on kindred subjects."

"Poor mamma," murmured his companion, "she's a trifle conventional; but, of course, if you're not in sympathy with her, you can easily avoid her."

There, the cat was out of the bag at last, and both felt easier in consequence. Stanley threw himself into the breach at once, and took the burden of the conversation.