George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

He patted Joby until the caresses grew too forcible to be pleasant, and the dog slipped under his master’s chair, while the note was read over and over again, and then carefully placed in a pocket-book and transferred to the owner’s breast—a serious proceeding with a comic side.

“No, my darling,” he said, “I won’t think ill of you; and as for you, my dear Lady Barmouth, all stratagems are good in love and war. You have thrown down the glove in casting me off in this cool and insolent manner; I have taken it up. If I cannot win her by fair means, I must by foul.”

He walked up and down the room for a few minutes in a state of intense excitement.

“I can’t help the past,” he said, half aloud. “I cannot help what I am, but win her I must. I feel now as if I can stop at nothing to gain my ends, and here is the way open at all events for a time. Joby, you are going to prove your master’s best friend.”

Chapter Seven.

Down Below.

“If I had my way,” said Mr Robbins, “I’d give orders to the poliss, and every one of ’em should be took up. They’re so fond of turning handles that I’d put ’em on the crank. I’d make ’em grind.”

“You have not the taste for the music, M’sieur Robbins,” said Mademoiselle Justine, looking up from her plate at dinner in the servants’ hall, and then glancing side wise at Dolly Preen, who was cutting her waxy potato up very small and soaking it in gravy, as she bent down so as not to show her burning face.

“Haven’t I, ma’amselle? P’r’aps not; but I had a brother who could a’most make a fiddle speak. I don’t call organs music, and I object on principle to a set of lazy ronies being encouraged about our house.”

Dolly’s face grew more scarlet, and Mademoiselle Justine’s mouth more tight as a couple of curious little curves played about the corners of her lips.

“Well, all I can say,” said the cook, “is, that he’s a very handsome man.”

“Handsome!” exclaimed Robbins, “I don’t call a man handsome as can’t shave, and never cuts his greasy hair. Handsome! Yah, a low, macaroni-eating, lazy rony, that’s what he is. There’s heaps of ’em always walking about outside the furren church doors, I’ve seen ’em myself.”

“But some of ’em’s exiles, Mr Robbins,” said the stout, amiable-looking cook. “I have ’eared as some on ’em’s princes in disguise.”

“My faith!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Justine, sardonically.

“Yes, ma’amselle, I ayve,” said cook, defiantly, “I don’t mean Frenchy exiles, with their coats buttoned up to their chins in Leicester Square, because they ain’t got no washing to put out, but Hightalian exiles.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Justine, “that for you! What know you?” and she snapped her fingers.

“Pr’aps a deal more than some people thinks, and I don’t like to sit still and hear poor people sneered at because they are reduced to music.”

“But I don’t call that music,” said Robbins, contemptuously.

“Don’t you, Mr Robbins?—then I do.”

At this stage of the proceedings Dolly could bear her feelings no more, but got up and left the hall to ascend the back stairs to her own room, and sit down in a corner, and cover her face with her natty apron.

“Pore gell,” exclaimed the cook. “It’s too bad.”

“What is too bad, Madame Downes?” said Mademoiselle Framboise.

“To go on like that before the pore thing. She can’t help it.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the French maid, “it is disgust. An organ man! The child is affreusement stupide.”

“I have a heart of my own,” sighed the cook.

“Yais, but you do not go to throw it to a man like that, Madame Downes.”

“Hear, hear!” said the butler, and there was a chorus of approval.

“I say it is disgust—disgrace,” continued Mademoiselle Justine. “The girl is mad, and should be sent home to the bon papa down in the country.”

“I have a heart of my own,” said Mrs Downes again. “Ah, you needn’t laugh, Mary Ann. Some people likes footmen next door.”

The housemaid addressed tossed her head and exclaimed, “Well, I’m sure!”

“And so am I,” replied the cook, regardless of the sneers and smiles of the rest of the domestics at the table. “As I said before, I have a heart of my own, and if some people follow the example of their betters,”—here Mrs Downes stared very hard at the contemptuous countenance of the French maid,—“and like the furren element, it’s no business of nobody’s.”

Madame Justine’s eyes flashed.

“Did you make that saying for me, Madame Downes?” she flashed out viciously.

“Sayings ain’t puddens,” retorted cook.

“I say, make you that vairy witty jeer for me?” cried Mademoiselle Justine viciously.

“What I say is,” continued the cook, who, having a blunter tongue, stood on her defence, but heaping up dull verbiage round her position as a guard against the Frenchwoman’s sharp attack, “that a man’s a man, and if he’s a furrener it ain’t no fault of his. I should say he’s a count at least, and he’s very handsome.”

“Counts don’t count in this country,” said Robbins smiling, and waiting for the applause of the table.

“Count indeed!” cried Mademoiselle Justine. “Count you the fork and spoons, Mr Robbins, and see that these canaille music men come not down the air—ree. As for that green-goose girl Preen—Bah! she is a little shild for her mamma to vip and send to bed wizout her soop—paire. Madame Downes, you are a vairy foolish woman.”

Mademoiselle Justine rose from her seat, and made a movement as if to push back a chair; but she had been seated upon a form which accommodated half a dozen more domestics, and in consequence she had to climb out and glide toward the door, through which she passed with a rustle like that of a cloud of dead leaves swept into a barn.

“You’ve put ma’amselle out, Mrs Downes,” said Robbins with condescension.

“That’s easy enough done, Mr Robbins. It’s her furren blood. I don’t like young people to be sneered at if they’re a bit tender. I’ve got a heart of my own.”

“And a very good heart too, Mrs Downes,” said the butler.

“Hear, hear,” said Joseph the footman.

“Hear, hear, hear, hear, hear!” cried the page-boy, a young gentleman who lived in a constant state of suppression, and consequently in his youthful vivacity was always seeking an opportunity to come to the surface. This appeared to him to be one. His chief had paid a compliment which had been cheered by the said chief’s first-lieutenant Joseph, so Henry, the bearer of three rows of buttons, every one of which he longed to annex for purposes of play, cried “hear, hear, hear,” as the footman’s echo, and rapped loudly upon the table with the haft of his knife.

A dead silence fell upon the occupants of the servants’ hall, and Henry longed to take flight; but the butler fixed him as the Ancient Mariner did the wedding guest, and held him with his glittering eye.

“There, I knowed you’d do it,” whispered the footman. “You’re always up to some of your manoeuvres.”

“Henry,” said the butler in his most severe tones, and with the look upon his countenance that he generally reserved for Lord Barmouth, “I don’t know where you were brought up, my good boy, and I don’t want to know, but have the goodness to recollect that you are now in a nobleman’s service, where, as there is no regular steward’s room for the upper servants, you are allowed to take your meals with your superiors. I have before had occasion to complain of your behaviour, eating with your knife, breathing all over your plate, and sniffing at the table in a most disgusting way.”

“Hear, hear,” said Joseph in a low voice, and the boy thought it additionally hard that he was to be chidden while his fellow-servant in livery went free.

Mr Robbins bowed his head graciously to his underling’s softly-breathed piece of adulation, and continued—

“Once for all, my good boy, I must request that if you do not wish to be sent into the knife place to partake of your meals, you will cease your low pothouse conduct, and behave yourself properly.”

The butler turned away with a dignified air, while Henry screwed up his face as if about to cry, bent down his head, and began to kick the footman’s legs under the table—a playful piece of impudence that the lofty servitor did not resent, Master Henry the buttons knowing too much of things in general appertaining to the pantry; sundry stealings out at night when other people were in bed, and when returns were made through the area door, and from good fellowship, for though there was a vast difference in years and size, Joseph’s brain was of much the same calibre as that of the boy.

“Mrs Downes,” said the butler, after clearing his voice with a good cough, “your sentiments do you credit. You have a heart of your own, and what is more, you are English.”

“I am, Mr Robbins, I am,” said the lady addressed, and she wiped her eyes.

“Furreners are furreners,” continued the butler didactically; “but what I always will maintain is, that the English are so thoroughly English.”

There was a murmur of applause here which warmed the imposing-looking butler’s heart, and he continued—

“Your sentiments do you the greatest of credit, Mrs Downes; but you are too tender.”

“I can’t help it, Mr Robbins,” said the lady pathetically.

“And I’m sure no one wishes that you should, Mrs Downes, for I say it boldly so that all may hear,—except the two lady’s maids who have left the hall,—that a better cook, and a kinder fellow-servant never came into a house.”

Another murmur of applause, and the cook sighed, shed two more tears, and felt, to use her own words, afterward expressed, “all of a fluster.”

“Mr Robbins,” she began.

“I beg your pardon, madam, I have not finished,” said the butler, smiling. “I only wished to observe, and I must say it even if I give offence to your delicate susceptibilities, madam, that that furren papist fellow with the organ haunts Portland Place like a regular demon, smiling at weak woman, and taking of her captive, when it’s well known what lives the poor creatures live out Saffron Hill way. I should feel as I was not doing my duty toward my fellow creatures if I didn’t protest against such a man having any encouragement here.”

“Hear, hear,” said the footman again.

“Some impudent person once observed,” continued the butler, “that when a footman married he took a room in a mews for his wife, and furnished it with a tub and a looking-glass.”

“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed the buttons.

“Henry, be silent, or you will have to leave the room,” said the butler, sternly. “A tub and a looking-glass, I repeat,” he added, as he looked round, “so that his wife might try to get her living by washing, and see herself starve.”

A murmur of approval rose here from every one but the footman, who looked aggrieved, and kicked Henry beneath the table.

“But what I say is this,” continued the butler, “the pore girl who lets herself be deluded into marrying one of those lazy rony organ men may have the looking-glass, for Italians is a vain nation; but from what I know of ’em, the pore wives will never have the tub, let alone the soap.”

The butler smiled, and there was a burst of laughter, which ceased as the cook took up the defence.

“Maybe,” she said, “but what I say is this, as I’ve said before, I can feel for a woman in love, for I have a heart of my own.”

It was self-evident, for that heart was thoroughly doing its work of pumping the vital current so energetically, that the blood flushed the lady’s cheeks, rose into her forehead, and was beginning to suffuse her eyes, which looked angry, when a loud peal at the front door bell acted as a check to the discussion, Joseph going off to answer the summons as all arose, and the butler, to finish the debate, exclaimed—

“Mark my words, no good won’t come of it if that man’s allowed to haunt this house, and—Well, of all the impudence! there he is again. I shall have to call her ladyship’s attention to the fact.”

For Luigi was slowly grinding out the last new waltz, and it had such an effect on the more frivolous of the hired servants, that as soon as their elders had quitted the underground banquetting hall, two of them clasped each other, and began to spin round the place, proving that music had charms as well as the man.

Chapter Eight.

Family Matters.

Charley Melton made up his mind that he would behave honourably, and he called several times more at Portland Place, till it became evident that there was no prospect of his being admitted. He saw the carriage twice in the Park, and bowed, to obtain a cold recognition from her ladyship the first time, the cut direct from her the second time, and an agonised look from Maude.

“That’s the second time this week,” he muttered angrily; “I must end this.” He stopped short, leaning over the rails and watching the carriage as it was pulled up, and a fashionably-dressed gentleman went to the door and stood talking for some considerable time.

“My rival, I suppose. Sir Grantley Wilters, then, is to be the happy man? Here, come along, Joby, it is time to take to stratagem. I wonder what has become of Tom?”

The next day a special message was sent to that medical attendant, Doctor Todd, Lady Barmouth imploring him to come directly, as Maude was so ill that she was growing uneasy.

“Humph!” said the doctor, “poor girl. But she must wait her turn.”

He hurried through his interviews with his regular patients, and reached Portland Place just as lunch was going in; but it was put back while Lady Barmouth took him into the drawing-room, where Maude was seated.

“Ah, my dear!” he exclaimed, in his cheery way. “Why, I say, what’s the matter?”

He sat talking to her for some little time, wrote a prescription, and then rose.

“There, Lady Barmouth,” he said; “that is all I can do. Give her change and peace of mind, and she will soon be well.”

“Indeed, doctor,” cried her ladyship, “she shall have everything she can wish for. As to peace of mind, why what is there to disturb it? It is our peace of mind that suffers. Poor Sir Grantley Wilters is half distracted about her.”

“Is he?” said the doctor, bluntly. “Why, what has it got to do with him?”

“Hush, doctor! Fie!” exclaimed her ladyship, smiling. “There, you are making somebody blush. It is too bad.”

Maude darted an indignant glance at her mother, and with flaming cheeks and eyes full of tears left the room.

“Poor girl, she is so hysterical,” said her ladyship. “Ah, these young girls, these young girls! Of course you will stay lunch, doctor?”

“Yes,” he said shortly, “I intended to. I’m precious hungry, and you’ve put me out of my usual course.”

“I’m so sorry,” said her ladyship; “but it was very good of you to come,” as the door opened and the earl came toddling into the room.

“Ah, doctor,” he said, “doosed glad to see you. Did you hear my leg was threatening again?”

“No,” said the doctor, shaking hands. “We must have a consultation.”

“And forbid so many good things, doctor,” said her ladyship, with asperity.

“But, my dear, I—I—I’m pretty nearly starved; it’s poverty of blood, I’m sure.”

“Well, come and have a good lunch,” said the doctor. “I’ll see that you have nothing to disagree with you.”

“Thank you, doctor, thank you,” said the old gentleman, as the gong began to sound and they went down, Tryphie and Tom coming out of another room—Maude joining them, looking now quite composed.

“I remember when I was a boy,” said Lord Barmouth, suddenly.

“Yes, my love,” said her ladyship, stiffly; “but you’ve told us that before.”

“Have I, my dear?” said his lordship, looking troubled, and then there was a little pause.

“I may have a glass of hock, may I not, doctor?” said the old man, as the luncheon went on.

“Eh? Yes.—I say, what’s your name, bring me the hock, some seltzer and a glass,” said the doctor to Robbins. “Yes, my dear,” he continued to Tryphie, “I would rather any day go to the Tyrol than along the beaten track through the Alps.”

The butler brought the hock and seltzer, and a large tumbler, into which such a liberal portion of wine was poured that Lady Barmouth looked horrified, and the old gentleman chuckled and squeezed Maude’s hand under the table.

“Is not that too much, doctor?” whispered her ladyship.

“Eh? Much? oh no. Do him good,” said the doctor, filling up the glass with seltzer. “There, take that to his lordship.”

“I say, father,” said Tom, giving her ladyship a mocking smile, “I watched the quantities. I’ll mix your hock for you in future.”

The luncheon went on, the doctor chatting merrily, while his lordship became, under the influence of so strong a dose of medicine, quite garrulous.

“I say, doctor,” he said, chuckling, “did—did you hear that deuced good story about Lady Grace Moray?”

“No,” said the doctor; “what was it?”

“Capital story, and quite true—he he, he!” chuckled the old gentleman. “She—she—she—begad, she was disappointed of one fellow, and—and—and, damme if she didn’t run off with the butler.”

“Barmouth!” exclaimed her ladyship, austerely, “I am glad that the servants are not in the room.”

“It’s—it’s—it’s a fact, my dear,” said the old gentleman, wiping his eyes. “Bolted with him, she did, and—and—and, damme, I forget how it all ended. I say, Tom, my boy, how—how—how the doose did that affair end?”

“Got married and made a fool of herself,” said Tom sharply.

“Do people always make fools of themselves who marry, Tom?” said Tryphie in a low voice.

“Always,” he whispered back, “if they marry people chosen for them in place of those they love.”

“I must request, Barmouth, my dear, that you do not tell such stories as that. They are loathsome and repulsive. Lady Grace Moray comes of a very low type of family. Her grandfather married a butterman’s daughter, or something of that kind. They have no breeding.”

“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief in the drawing-room,” said his lordship, rising.

“Why not ring, my love?” said her ladyship.

“No, no, no, I would rather fetch it myself,” said his lordship, who left the room, went up two or three stairs, stopped, listened, and then toddled back to where, on a tray, the remains of a tongue stood in company with an empty vegetable dish or two.

There was a great piece, too, of the point quite six inches long lying detached, for the doctor’s arm was vigorous, and he had cut the tongue quite through. Such a chance was not offered every day, and it would not only make a couple or three pleasant snacks when his lordship was hungry, but it would keep.

He listened: all was still, and, cautiously advancing, he secured the piece of dry firm tongue. Then he started as if electrified. Robbins’ cough was heard on the stairs, and his lordship dabbed the delicacy away in the handiest place, and turned towards the door as the butler appeared in the hall.

“What game’s he up to now?” said Robbins to himself, as, with his memory reminding him of the trouble he had had to sponge and brush the tails of the old gentleman’s dress coats, which used to be found matted with gummy gravies and sauces, so that the pocket linings had had to be several times replaced, he opened the dining-room door.

“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief upstairs Robbins,” said his lordship humbly; and he toddled in again and retook his place.

The luncheon ended, the party rose and stood chatting about the room, while the doctor was in earnest conversation with Maude and her ladyship.

“Nothing at all,” he said firmly, “but low spirits from mental causes, and these are matters for which mothers and fathers must prescribe.”

“It’s—it’s—doosed hard to be so short of money,” said his lordship to himself as he was left alone; and then thinking of the tongue, he tried to get to the door, but a look from her ladyship sent him back. “It’s—it’s—doosed hard. I shall have to go to little Tryphie again. He, he, he! her ladyship don’t know,” he chuckled, “I’ve—I’ve left her five thousand in my will, bless her. I wish she’d buy me some more Bath buns.”

He crossed to where the bright little girl was standing, and she advanced to him directly.

“Can you lend me another five shillings, Tryphie?” he whispered.

“Yes, uncle,” she replied, nodding and smiling. “I’ll get it and put it under the china dog on the right hand cabinet.”

“That’s right, my dear; it’s—it’s—it’s so doosed awkward to be so short, and I don’t like to ask her ladyship.”

“Well, I must go,” said the doctor loudly. “Good-bye all. Good-bye, my dear,” he continued to Maude. Then he pinched Tryphie’s cheek, shook hands with the old man and was gone.

“So clever,” sighed her ladyship, “that we look over his rough, eccentric ways. I believe that I should not have been here now if it had not been for his skill.”

“Then damn the doctor,” said Tom to himself, for he was in a very unfilial mood.

“Oh, by the way,” said the gentleman spoken of, as he came hurriedly back, sending the door open so that it banged upon a chair, “Lady Maude, my dear, you are only to take that medicine when you feel low.”

As he spoke he hitched on his light overcoat that he had partly donned in the hall, and then, fishing in one of the pockets for his gloves, he brought out a piece of tongue.

“Oh, bless my soul!” muttered his lordship; and he toddled towards the window.

“What the dickens is this?” cried the doctor, holding out his find, and putting up his double eye-glass. “Tongue, by jingo! Is this one of your tricks, my Lord Tom?”

“No,” roared Tom, as he burst out laughing, and followed his father to the window, where the old gentleman was nervously gazing forth.

“I’m so sorry,” said her ladyship, quivering with indignation. “It must have been one of the servants, or the cat.”

“Well,” said the doctor, solemnly, “I’ll swear I didn’t steal it. I might perhaps have pocketed something good, but I hadn’t got this coat on.”

“Pray say no more, doctor,” said her ladyship. “Robbins, bring a plate and take this away.”

“Yes, my lady,” said the butler, who was waiting in the hall to show the doctor out; and he made matters worse by advancing with a stately march, taking a plate and silver fork from the sideboard, removed the piece of tongue from the doctor’s fingers with the fork; and then deftly thrusting it off with his thumb on to the plate, he marched out with it, the ladies all bursting into busy conversation to cover his retreat.

Then the doctor went, and a general ascent towards the drawing-room was commenced, his lordship hanging back, and Tom stopping to try and avert the storm.

“Such idiotic—such disgraceful proceedings, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship, closing the dining-room door.

“There, that will do, mother,” said Tom, quietly. “Lookers-on see most of the game.”

“What do you mean, sir?” said her ladyship.

“Why this,” said Tom, savagely. “There, don’t faint; because if you do I shan’t stop and attend you.”

“If I only dared to face her like my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself; “damme, he’s as brave as a little lion, my son Tom.”

“Sir, your language is most disgraceful,” said her ladyship, haughtily.

“That’s what all people think when something is said that they don’t like. Now look here, mother; I don’t mean to stand by any more and see the old man bullied.”

“Bless him, I am proud of that boy,” thought his lordship. “Damme, he’s little, but he’s a man.”

“Diphoos!” cried her ladyship.

“I don’t say it was not stupid of the gov’nor to go and take that piece of tongue, and put it in the wrong pocket.”

“But, my dear boy, I—”

“Hold your tongue, gov’nor,” cried Tom. “It was stupid and idiotic of him perhaps, but not one half so stupid and idiotic as some things I see done here.”

“Tom, I do not know what you mean,” cried her ladyship.

“Well, I mean this. It was idiotic to marry Di to liver-pill Goole, as they call him; and ten times more idiotic to encourage that racing cad, Captain Bellman, here; while it was madness to cut Charley Melton adrift, and try to bring things to an understanding between Maude and that hospital dummy, Wilters.”

“Your language, sir, is frightful,” cried her ladyship, whose voice was rising in spite of herself. “Hospital dummy!”

“So he is; I could drive my fist right through his tottering carcase. He’s only fit to stuff and put in a glass case as a warning to young men.”

“I wish—I wish—I wish I could pat him on the back,” muttered Lord Barmouth. “He’s brave as a lion.”

“Sir Grantley Wilters has my consent to pay his addresses to your sister,” said her ladyship with dignity; “and as for your disgusting remarks about Captain Bellman, he comes here with my consent to see your cousin Tryphie, for whom he will be an excellent parti.”

“Parti—funeral party. An excellent corpse,” cried Tom in a rage, “for, damme, I’ll shoot him on his wedding morning before he shall have her.”

“You will have to leave home, sir, and live in chambers,” said her ladyship. “You grow too low for society.”

“What, and let you have your own way here, mother! No, hang it, that you shan’t. You may stop my allowance, but I stop here; so don’t look blank, dad.”

“Don’t speak angrily to your mamma, my dear boy,” said Lord Barmouth.

“All right, gov’nor.”

“As to your friend and companion, whom you brought to this house, and who pretended, like an impostor as he is, to have good expectations—”

“He never did anything of the kind,” said Tom. “He always said he hadn’t a rap.”

“Such a person ought never to have been brought near your sweet, pure-minded sisters,” continued her ladyship; “I found out that he was an impostor, and now I hear that he gambles and is in debt.”

“Who told you that?” roared Tom.

“Never mind.”

“But I insist on knowing.”

“Hush, hush, my boy,” said his lordship, twitching Tom’s coat.

“Be quiet, gov’nor. Who told you that, mamma?” cried Tom.

“I heard it from good authority,” said her ladyship as Lord Barmouth beat a retreat.

“Then good authority is a confounded liar,” cried Tom, as her ladyship sailed out of the room, and after he had cooled down a little and looked round, he found his lordship had gone.

Tom went into the cloak-room, where he came upon his father sitting on a box, busily spreading a biscuit with some mysterious condiment which he dug out of a pot with a paper-knife.

“Poor old Charley,” said Tom, not heeding his father’s occupation, “he’s the soul of honour—a regular trump. Look here, gov’nor,” he cried, turning sharply on the old gentleman and making him jump.

“Don’t you bully me too, my dear boy,” said the old man, trembling. “I can’t bear it!”

“I’m not going to bully you, gov’nor,” cried Tom, laying his hands on the old man’s shoulders affectionately; “but are you going to stand up for your rights or are you not? Look here—that tongue!”

“Yes, my boy, I did take it—I own it. I thought I might be hungry to-morrow, I have such a dreadful appetite, my boy.”

“Then why not ring and order that pompous old fizzle Robbins to bring you up something to eat?”

“I daren’t, my dear boy, I daren’t. Her ladyship has given such strict orders to the servants, and I feel so humiliated when they refuse me.”

“Of course you do, gov’nor. Then why don’t you go down to the club?”

“I can’t Tom, my boy. There’s no credit there, and her ladyship keeps me so horribly short of money.”

“It’s too bad; but come, gov’nor. I’m not afraid of mamma, and I’m not nearly so big as you are.”

“But, my boy,” whimpered the old man? with a piteous look upon his face, “I look bigger than I am, but it isn’t all real: there’s a deal of padding, Tom, and that’s no good. That tailor fellow said I must have a lot of filling out.”

He drew out his pocket-handkerchief to wipe away a weak tear, while Tom looked at him, half sorry, half amused, laughing at length outright as the poor old man smeared something brown and sticky across his face.

“Why, gov’nor!” he cried reproachfully, as something round and brown and flat fell upon the carpet.

“It’s only a veal cutlet, my son,” said the old man, piteously, as he stooped and picked it up before wiping his face. “You see I didn’t know then that I should get the piece of tongue.”

“Oh, gov’nor, gov’nor!” cried Tom.

“Don’t scold me, my dear boy,” pleaded the old man. “I am so padded out. There’s much less of me when my coat’s off. But I’m nothing to what your dear mamma is. Really the way she makes up is a gross imposture. If you only knew what I know, Tom, you’d be astonished.”

“I know quite enough,” growled Tom, “and wouldn’t care if she were not so false inside.”

“Don’t say that, Tom, my boy. She’s a wonderful woman, and means all for the best.”

“But, my dear old gov’nor,” said Tom, “this is all so very weak of you.”

“Well, it is, my boy.”

“You must pluck up, or we shall be ruined,” continued Tom, taking up a napkin and removing a little tomato sauce from his parent’s brow.

“No, my boy—no, my boy, don’t say that; but I can’t bear to ask her ladyship for money. It does make her so cross.”

“It isn’t pleasant,” said Tom; “but there, you go up in the drawing-room, and watch over Maude like a lion; I don’t want to see her made miserable.”

“I will, Tom, my boy, I will.”

“And I say, gov’nor, you will stick up?”

“Yes, Tom, my boy, yes,” said the old man. “There, you shall see. Going out?”

“Yes, gov’nor, I want to hunt out Charley Melton. I haven’t see him for an age. He’s always away somewhere.”

“Give my kind regards, Tom. He’s a fine fellow—Damme, I like Charley. But I’m afraid he thinks me very weak.”

“Nonsense, dad,” cried Tom; “but, I say, what’s that in your pocket?”

“Oh, nothing, my son, nothing,” said the old man, in a confused way, as Tom pounced upon his pocket and dragged out something in a handkerchief. “Why bless my soul,” he cried, in a surprised tone of voice, as he raised his glasses to his eyes, “if it isn’t a patty.”

“Yes, gov’nor, and you’ve been sitting on it. Now, I say, old fellow, that is weak. Pah! why it smells of eau-de-Cologne from your handkerchief. You couldn’t eat that.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, wrinkling up his forehead.

“Gov’nor, you’re incorrigible,” cried Tom. “Only this morning Joseph told me in confidence that you had borrowed five shillings of him, and I had to give it him back, leaving myself without a shilling. Hang me, if you do such things as this again, if I don’t tell the old lady.”

“No, no, my boy, pray don’t,” said the old gentleman, anxiously, “and I’ll never do so any more.”

“Till the very next time,” said Tom, sharply. “Gov’nor, you’re afraid of the servants, and you are always stealing something.”

“I—I—I am a little afraid of Robbins,” faltered the old man gently; “and that big footman Joseph rather looks at me; but, Tom, my boy, it ought not to be stealing for me to take my own things.”

“Well, I suppose not, gov’nor; but it really is absurd to see you send a chicken bone flying across a drawing-room when you take out your handkerchief and your coat-tails stiff with gravy.”

“It is, my son,” said the old man, hastily; “but about Charley Melton. I like him, Tom.”

“And so do I, father.—He’s my friend, and I’ll stick to him too.”

He said the latter words in the hall, as he put on his hat and took his cane, paused to light a very strong cigar of the kind her ladyship detested to smell in the house, and then, with his hat cocked defiantly on one side, sallied out, looking so small in Great Portland Place that he seemed lost.

As the door closed upon him, Lord Barmouth came out of the lavatory, and met Robbins the butler and a footman coming to clear away the lunch things.

Lord Barmouth looked up and down, and then took the pompous butler by the button.

“Robbins,” he said, “if her ladyship does not object, I shall not wear my second dress suit any more.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the butler with solemn dignity.

“And, Robbins,” added his lordship, in a hurried whisper, “what did you do with that piece of tongue?”

“Took it down into the kitchen, my lord.”

“Ask Mrs Downes to give it back to you, Robbins—for me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Wrap it up in paper, Robbins.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And by the way, Robbins,” continued the old gentleman, after a sharp look round, like a sparrow in fear of cats, “could you oblige me with five pounds?”

“Well really, my lord—you see you owe me—”

“Sixty-five, Robbins.”

“And interest, my lord.”

“Of course, Robbins, of course; and you shall have it all back; but you see, Robbins, it is not always easy to lay one’s hands on a few pounds to give to my son. You know it is quite safe.”

“Oh, of course, my lord.”

“I don’t like to be so situated that I cannot oblige him with a sovereign now and then.”

“Of course not, my lord. Will your lordship be good enough to write me an I.O.U.?”

“Certainly, Robbins, certainly. There—there—that’s it. I.O.U. five pounds—Barmouth. Thank you, Robbins; you are a most valuable servant.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I’ve put you down for something handsome in my will, Robbins, so that if I should die some day, as I probably shall, you’ll burn these I.O.U.s, Robbins, and pay yourself out of what I’ve left.”

“Certainly, my lord; but suppose—”

“The will is disputed? Oh no, Robbins, I can do what I like with my money then, and I shall not be ungrateful.”

The old man took the five pounds and went off, chuckling with delight at being able to supply Tom with a little hard cash next time that gentleman was short, which would be next day; while the butler said something to himself which sounded like—

“Poor old magpie. Well, he ain’t a bad sort, and that’s more than you can say of the dragon.”

Chapter Nine.

Love me, Love my Dog.

There was gravel to be ground in Hyde Park, but Lady Maude declined to assist in the operation, pleading a bad headache; so Lady Barmouth took her carriage exercise alone, while his lordship watched till the barouche had gone, when he went up and sat by his child in the drawing-room, and talked to her for a time, ending by selecting a comfortable chair and going off fast asleep.

He had not been unconscious five minutes before Maude heard a bit of a disturbance, and directly after there was a scratching at the drawing-room door.

She started and listened, with the colour coming and going in her cheeks, when the scratching was repeated, and on her opening the door Joby trotted in, looked at her, gave his tail a wag to the right and a wag to the left. When, catching sight of Lord Barmouth, his canine nature got the better of him, and trotting up to the easy-chair, he sniffed two or three times at his lordship’s pocket, ending by laying his massive jowl upon the old man’s knee.

Maude trembled as she watched the dog, and her face was flaming, but she dared not move.

The old gentleman half woke up, and realised the fact of the dog being there, for he put out his thin white hand, and patted the great head, and rubbed Joby’s ears, muttering softly, “Good dog, then; poor old fellow,” and then went off fast asleep.

Joby pushed his head a little farther up, and then had another sniff at the pocket. After this, giving his lordship up for a bad job, or roused to a sense of duty, he trotted over to Maude, laid his head in her lap, and stared up at her with his great eyes.

It seemed a shame to be so lavish of such sweet kisses, and on a dog’s forehead; but all the same Maude bestowed them there, and the ugly brute blinked and snuffled and whined softly. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike Maude though, and her little fingers began to busy themselves about the dog’s collar, to tremble visibly, and at last with a faint cry of joy she detached a note folded in a very small compass, and fitted in a little packet of leather the colour of the dog’s skin.

Trembling with eagerness she was about to open it, when the door was opened, and Robbins entered to announce—

“Sir Grantley Wilters.”

Maude turned from crimson to white, and Joby crept slowly under the couch, resenting an offer made by the butler to drive him out by such a display of white teeth that the pompous domestic said to himself that the dog might stay as long as he liked, for it wasn’t his place to interfere.

Sir Grantley’s costume was faultless, for he was a fortune to his tradespeople—the tightest of coats and gloves, the shiniest of boots, and the choicest of “button-holes,” displayed in a tiny glass of water pinned in the fold of his coat, as he came in, hat and cane in one hand, and a little toy terrier in the other—one of those unpleasantly diminutive creatures whose legs seem as if they are not safe, and whose foreheads and eyes indicate water on the brain.

“Ah, Lady Maude. Delighted to find you alone,” said the baronet, advancing and extinguishing the dog with his hat, so as to leave his tightly-gloved hand free to salute the lady.

“I am not alone,” said Maude quietly, and she pointed to his lordship’s chair.

“No: to be sure. Asleep! Well, I really thought you were alone, don’t you know.”

“Papa often comes and sits with me now,” said Maude, quietly.

“Very charming of him, very,” said Sir Grantley. “Quite well?”

“Except a headache,” said Maude.

“Sorry—very,” said the baronet, hunting for his glass, which was now hanging between his shoulders. “Bad things headaches, very. Should go for a walk.”

“I preferred staying at home this afternoon,” said Maude.

“Did you, though! Ah!” said Sir Grantley. “Sorry about the headache. Always take brandy and soda for headache I do, don’t you know. By the way, Lady Maude,” he continued, taking his hat off the little dog as if he were performing a conjuring trick, “I bought this beautiful little creechaw in Regent Street just now. Will you accept it from me?”

“Oh, thank you, no,” said Maude. “I’m sure mamma would not approve of my accepting such a present.”

“Oh, yes, I asked her yesterday, don’t you know, and she said you’d be most happy. Very nice specimen, not often found so small. May I set it down?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Maude, colouring with annoyance; and evidently very glad to get rid of the little animal, the baronet set it down and it began to make a tour of the room.

“Don’t be nervous about accepting presents from me,” said Sir Grantley, “because I shall bring you a great many.”

“I beg you will not, Sir Grantley,” said Maude, flushing. “You must really by now be quite sure that such attentions are distasteful to me.”

“Not used to them, you know,” said the baronet smiling; “but I have her ladyship’s full permission, and we shall understand each other in time. Old gentleman sleeps well.”

“Papa is getting old, and his health is feeble,” said Maude, rather indignantly.

“Yes, very,” said the baronet.—“I don’t want to be a bore, but I’ve said so little to you about our future.”

“Our future?”

“Yes; it’s all settled. I proposed down at Hurst, and thought it was all over; but her ladyship kindly tells me that I may hope.”

“Sir Grantley Wilters,” cried Maude, rising, “I am not of course ignorant of what mamma’s wishes are, but let me tell you as a gentleman that this subject is very distasteful to me, and that I can never, never think otherwise of you than I do now.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” said Sir Grantley, in a most unruffled manner. “You are very young, don’t you know. Think differently by and bye. Bad job this about poor Melton.”

Maude started, and her eyes dilated slightly.

“Thought he was a decent fellow once, but he’s regularly going to the dogs.”

“Mr Melton is a friend of mine, Sir Grantley—a very dear friend of mine,” cried Maude, crushing the stiff paper of the note she held in her hand.

“Say was, my dear Maude,” said Sir Grantley, making pokes at the pearl buttons on his patent leather boots with his walking cane. “Poor fellow! Was all right once, but he’s hopelessly gone now.”

“I will not believe it,” cried Maude indignantly. “It is cruel and ungentlemanly of you to try to blacken Mr Melton thus when he is not present.”

“Cruel perhaps, but kind,” said Sir Grantley; “ungentlemanly, no.” He drew himself up slightly, as he spoke. “Poor beggar, can’t help being poor, you know. They say—”

“Sir Grantley, I will not believe anything against Mr Melton,” cried Maude with spirit.

“Not till you have proved it, my dear child. I don’t want to pain you, but I know that the thoughts of Charles Melton have kept you from listening to me. Now, my dear Maude, if I were out of the race, you could not marry a man who is hopelessly in the hands of the Jews. Couldn’t do it, you know; and they do say.”

“Sir Grantley Wilters,” cried Maude, with her head thrown back, “these are cruel calumnies. Mr Charles Melton is a gentleman, and the soul of honour. I shall tell him your words.”

“I shall be very glad to retract them, and apologise,” said the baronet calmly; and then he busied himself in fixing his glass, for the little toy terrier had suddenly made a dead set at one end of the couch, where from beneath the chintz cover there peered out one very large prominent and peculiar eye, which kept blinking at the terrier in the calmest manner, its owner never attempting to move in spite of the angry demonstrations of the newcomer.

At last its demonstrations became so loud that, not seeing the great eye himself, the baronet rose slowly, drove the terrier into the back drawing-room and closed the door.

“A little new to the place, don’t you know,” he said. “There, I’m going now; I did not mean to blacken Mr Melton’s character, but ask your brother to inquire. Sorry for any man to go to the bad. Gone regularly. Good-day.”

He took Maude’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, while she was too much agitated to resist. Then backing to the door, he smiled, kissed his glove, and was gone.

“Oh, this is monstrous!” cried Maude in anguished tones, when she remembered the note and opened it hastily, to read a few lines full of manly love and respect; and as she read of her wooer’s determination never to give her up, her heart grew stronger in its faith.

“I knew it was false,” she exclaimed, proudly. “How dare he calumniate him like that!”

Then going to a writing table, she glanced at her father, saw that he still slept, and, blushing at her duplicity, she wrote a note, folded it so that it would go in the tiny leather pocket, and in a low voice called the dog.

Joby came out directly, and laid his great head in her lap, while the note was securely placed in its receptacle.

“Now go to your master, good dog,” she cried, kissing him once more, and at the word “master” Joby started to the door and looked back, when Maude followed and opened it. The dog trotted downstairs and settled himself under the porter’s chair in the hall till the door was opened. Then he trotted off to his master’s chambers.

Meanwhile, as soon as she had despatched her messenger, Maude seated herself upon the carpet by her father, and laid her cheek against his hand.

He opened his eyes directly, saw who it was, and laid his other hand upon her head.

“Ah, Maude, my pet,” he said. “I have, been sitting here with my eyes closed.”

“Yes, papa. Did you hear what Sir Grantley Wilters said?”

“No, my child. Has—has—he been here?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Then I suppose I must have been quite asleep.”

“Yes, papa—for quite an hour.—Papa, dear.”

“Yes, my love.”

“I cannot rest happy with any secret from you,” said the girl, with averted head, and her cheeks burning for shame at the clandestine correspondence she was carrying on.

“That’s right, my darling,” said the old man, patting the soft fair hair and smoothing it over her forehead.

“Papa, dear,” she continued, after a long pause, during which she fought hard to nerve herself for what she had to say.

“Yes, my child. There, you’re not afraid of me.”

“Oh, no, dear,” she cried, drawing his arm around her neck, and holding his hand with both hers to her throbbing bosom. “Papa, I’m afraid—”

“Afraid, my dear?”

“Afraid that I love Mr Melton very dearly.”

She hid her face upon the withered old hand, and the burning blood crimsoned her soft white neck at this avowal.

“Well—well—well! He—he—he!” chuckled the old man. “I—I—I don’t see anything so very shocking in that, Maude. Charley Melton is a doosed fine fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”

“Oh, papa, papa,” cried Maude joyfully; and she turned, flung her arms round his neck, and hid her face in his bosom.

“Yes, Maude,” he continued. “He’s a gentleman, and a man of honour, though he’s poor like the rest of us.”

“Thank God—thank God!” murmured Maude, as the words made her heart throb with joy.

“His father was a gentleman too and a man of honour, though a bit wild. He was my junior at Eton. I like Charley Melton, and though I should hate the man who tried to rob me of my little pet here, I don’t think I should be very hard on him.”

“Yap—yap—yap!” came from the back drawing-room, and the old gentleman looked inquiringly at his child.

“It is a pet dog,” she said contemptuously, “that Sir Grantley Wilters has brought as a present for me.”

“Don’t have it, my dear,” said the old gentleman, eagerly. “I wouldn’t. He’s a miserable screw of a fellow, that Wilters. I don’t like him, and her ladyship’s always trying to bring him forward. She’ll be wanting to make him marry you next.”

“Didn’t you know, papa?” cried Maude.

“Know, my darling? Know what?”

“He has proposed to mamma for my hand.”

“Then—then—then,” cried the old man, indignantly, “he—he—he shan’t have it. If my Maude is to be nurse to any man, she shall be nurse to me. He—he don’t want a wife.”

The old man shook his head angrily, and then patted and caressed the fair young girl who clung to him for protection. What his protection was worth he showed when a carriage stopped at the door, and her ladyship’s trumpet tones were heard soon after on the stairs.

“Maude, my darling,” he said, “here’s her ladyship. I—I think I’ll slip off this way down to my study.”

He went out by one door, timing himself carefully, as her ladyship came in at the other, and began praising the “lovely” little pet dog which Sir Grantley had left, to which the little brute replied by snapping at her fiercely as she approached her hand.

All the same though it had to make friends with her ladyship, who adopted it from the next day, Maude stubbornly refusing to have anything to do with the black and tan specimen of the canine race wrought by the “fancy” in filigree.

Chapter Ten.

Love’s Messengers.

“How a young lady as calls herself a young lady can bemean herself by making a pet of a low-bred, ill-looking dog like that, I can’t think,” said Mr Robbins, laying himself out for a speech in the servants’ hall. “That’s a nice enough little tarrier as Sir Grantley Wilters brought, and she won’t have none of it, but leaves it to her ladyship.”

“Yes,” said the footman, “and a nice mess is made, with sops and milk and cutlets all over the carpet.”

“Joseph,” said the butler with dignity, “it is not the place of a young man like you in livery to find fault with the acts of your superiors. Servants as do such things never rises to be out of livery.”

“Thanky, sir,” said Joseph, who, being a young man of a lively imagination and much whiskers, turned his head, squinted horribly at an under housemaid, and made her giggle.

“Such a dog as that ugly brute as comes brushing into the house every time the door is opened is only fit to go with a costermonger or a butcher.”

“Well, I’m sure, Mr Robbins,” said the cook, who for reasons of her own had a weakness for tradesmen in the latter line, “butchers are as good as butlers any day.”

“Perhaps they are, Mrs Downes—perhaps they are not,” said the butler with dignity; “but what I say is, Mr Melton ought to have known better than ever to have brought such a beast into a gentleman’s house.”

“That for your opinion, Mr Robbins,” said Mademoiselle Justine, colouring up and snapping her fingers. “I know what you think,” she said, speaking in a high-pitched, excited voice. “You think that a lady should admire scented men in fine tailor’s clothes and flowers, and wiz zere leetle wretched dogs. Bah! Tish! A woman loves the big and ugly and ster-r-r-rong. She can be weak and beautiful herself. Is it not so, my friends? Yes.”

Mademoiselle Justine shook her head, tightened her lips, and with sparkling eyes looked round the table, ending with heightened colour and patting her little bottine upon the floor.

“Well, that dog’s ugly enough anyhow,” said Robbins, smiling faintly, and making a second chin above his cravat. “As for that Mr Melton—”

“Ah, bah! stop you there,” cried Mademoiselle Justine. “I do not say he is ugly, but he is big and sterong and has broad shouldaire. He is all a man—tout-à-fait all a—quite a man.”

There was another sharp burst of nods and jerks at this.

“You think, you, that my young lady will marry this Sir Wilters? That for him! He is a man for the Maison Dieu or the Invalides. He marry! ha, ha, ha! I could blow him out myself. Poof! He is gone.”

Mademoiselle Justine blew some imaginary bit of fluff from her fingers as she spoke, apparently shook her head into a kind of notch or catch in the spine, and then sat very upright and very rigid, while the butler said grace and the party broke up.

Lunch had been over in the dining-room some time, and her ladyship was going out for a drive. Maude had again declined, and her ladyship had smiled, knowing that Sir Grantley Wilters would probably call. Her ladyship was wonderfully made up, and looked her best, for Monsieur Hector Launay from Upper Gimp Street had had an interview with her that morning. There had been a consultation on freckles, and a large mole which troubled her ladyship’s chin had been condemned to death, executed with some peculiar acid, and its funeral performed and mourning arranged with a piece of black court plaster, which now looked like a beauty spot upon the lady’s chin.

Her gloves, of the sweetest pearl grey, fitted her plump hands to perfection, and she was quite ready to go out.

“Where is your papa, dear Maude,” said her ladyship, stopping to smell a bouquet. “Ah me, how sweet! How kind Sir Grantley is, and what taste he has in flowers.”

“Papa is in the library,” said Maude, quietly, and she glanced nervously towards the door.

“Come then, a sweet,” cried her ladyship; “and he shall go and have a nice ride in the carriage, he shall, and look down and bark at all the dirty dogs in the road.”

As she showed her second best teeth in a large smile, the little terrier took it to be a challenge of war, and displayed his own pigmy set; but after a due amount of coaxing, and the gift of a lump of sugar, he permitted himself to be caught and placed beneath her ladyship’s plump arm, presenting to a spectator who had a side view a little head cocking out in front, and a little tail cocking out behind—nothing more.

“I shall be back by five, I dare say, Maude. Where is Tryphie?”

“I am here, aunt, quite ready,” said a cheerful voice, and the bright little girl appeared at the door.

“You are not quite ready: you have only one glove on. Tryphie, you might pay some respect to those who find you a home and protection.”

The girl coloured slightly but made no answer, only exchanged glances with Maude, and kissed her hand to her.

“Dear me!” exclaimed her ladyship, “where did I put my flaçon? Oh, I remember.”

She marched in a stately manner with the roll of a female beadle, or an alderman in his gold chain of office, to an Indian cabinet, opened a drawer and inserted her hand.

“Why, what is this?” she exclaimed, drawing out something whitey brown and throwing it down with an ejaculation of annoyance. “Disgusting!”

The toy terrier uttered a sharp yelp of excitement, leaped from her ladyship’s arms on to a table, upsetting a china cup and saucer, bounded on to the floor and seized that which her ladyship had rejected—to wit, a savoury-looking chicken bone, and proceeded to denude it of its flesh.

“I declare your papa grows insufferable,” cried her ladyship. “His brain must be softening. I shall consult the doctor about him.”

Certainly it was very annoying, for her ladyship’s pearly grey Parisian glove had a broad brown smear of osmazome across it, and all due to Lord Barmouth’s magpie-like trick of hiding scraps of food away for future consumption, in Indian cabinets and china jars, and then forgetting the caché he had made.

Mademoiselle Justine was summoned, a fresh pair of gloves obtained and put on with the maid’s assistance, by which time the dog had polished the bone, and probably in his own tongue, being a well-bred animal, said a grace and blessed Lord Barmouth. Then he was once more taken up, his mouth and paws wiped by Justine on one of her ladyship’s clean handkerchiefs; Tryphie nodded a good-bye to her cousin, to whom she had hardly dared to speak, and then followed her ladyship downstairs.

Maude rose, trembling and in dread lest something she feared should occur, for her ladyship was later than usual in going out, and this was a Wednesday, which day was sacred to the canine post.

In fact, as Maude heard the steps of the carriage rattled down with a great deal of noise—her ladyship encouraged her servants to bang them down well, for it let the neighbours know she kept a carriage and was going out—there was a pattering of feet, and as she opened the door, Joby came trotting in, with his great eyes full of animation, and the grinning smile in which he indulged a little more broad, for he had rushed in between the footman’s legs nearly upsetting him as the door was opened, in his eagerness to play postman for his master.

“Good dog, then!” whispered Maude, and then her heart seemed to stand still, for the carriage did not drive off, there was a rustling of silks on the stairs, and her ladyship came panting up.

Maude threw herself, colouring vividly, into a bergère chair, and Joby dived under the couch, not leaving so much as the point of his tail visible as her ladyship sailed into the room and looked hastily round.

“Maude,” she cried, “there is some mystery here. I insist on knowing what this means.”

There was no reply, but Tryphie came in, and darted a sympathetic glance at the poor girl, mentally wishing that Tom were at home.

“I—insist upon knowing what this means.”

“What, mamma?” said Maude, huskily.

“That dog; where is he? Mr Melton’s hideous wretch. Here: dog, dog, dog!” she cried.

She might have called till she was speechless, for Joby would not have moved. All the same, though, he was to be stirred, for her ladyship, now in a towering passion, set down the toy terrier upon a chair, when it immediately leaped to the carpet, barking furiously, and made a dead set at the sofa.

“It is yonder! You have hidden the wretch there!” cried her ladyship, “and I am certain that that dog has been made the bearer of clandestine correspondence. I have read of such things. But there’s an end to it now, and it is only just and fit—false, abandoned girl!—that it should be discovered by the faithful little dog of the gentleman who is to-be your husband. Good little pet, then, to protect your master’s interests. Fetch him out, then.”

This was rather unwise of her ladyship, but she was excited, and she excited the little terrier in turn, for he had contented himself up to this time with snapping and barking furiously at the chintz valance hanging from the sofa, but keeping about a yard distant, as he leaped up with all four feet from the carpet at once and came down barking.

Encouraged though by her ladyship he went a little closer, barking and snarling so furiously that Joby could not contain himself any longer but softly pushed his short black nose and one eye beneath the chintz, had a look at the noisy intruder, and then, withdrew once more.

“There! I knew it,” cried her ladyship, angrily. “Oh, shame on you, shame, shame! Good little dog, then! Drive him out!”

The terrier barked again furiously, and glanced up at her ladyship, who uttered fresh words of encouragement.

Sir Grantley Wilters gave fifteen guineas for the beast, and another for his morocco and silver collar!

“Drive him out, then, good little dog!” cried her ladyship, and with a fierce rush, the terrier ran under the sofa.

There was a sharp bark, a bit of a scuffle, a worrying noise, a loud yelp cut suddenly in half, and then, frowning severely, Joby crept out from the foot of the sofa, with the hair about his neck erect, his eyes glowering, and the limp corpse of the wretched terrier hanging from his jaws.

It was all plain enough—that invisible tragedy beneath the chintz. The enemy had fastened upon one of Joby’s cheeks with his keen little teeth, and made it bleed, when, with a growl, the big dog had shaken his assailant off, caught him by the back, given him a shake like a rat, and the terrier’s head, four legs, and tail hung down together. Sir Grantley Wilters’ guineas were represented now by some inanimate skin and bone.

It was all over!

“Oh, this is dreadful!” cried her ladyship, as, with a cry of horror, Maude made for the dog.

But no: Joby was amiability itself at times, and well educated; still, rouse the dog that was in him, and his obstinate breed began to show. Maude called, but he took no notice, only walked solemnly about the room with his vanquished enemy pendent from his grinning mouth.

“He’ll kill it—he’ll kill it,” cried her ladyship, wildly, but not daring to approach; and just then Tom entered the room. “Oh, Tom, Tom, quick!”

“What’s the row?” cried Tom, “eh? Oh, I say! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! what a jolly lark!” and he slapped his leg and roared with laughter.

“Tom!” shrieked her ladyship.

“That’s just about how Charley Melton could serve Wilters,” cried Tom, wiping his eyes.

“For shame, sir!” cried her ladyship. “Pray, pray save the poor dog.”

“What for?” said Tom, grinning, “to be stuffed?”

“Oh, don’t say it’s dead!” wailed her ladyship.

“I won’t, if you don’t wish me to say so,” said Tom, “but it is as dead as a door nail. Here, Joby, Joby,” he cried, walking up to the dog.

But there was a low growl and Joby hung his head, glowered, and walked to the far end of the drawing-room, seeming to take a pleasure in making his journey as long as he could in and out amongst chairs and tables, giving Tom, who followed him, significant hints that it would not be safe to interfere with him at such a time.

“There, let’s open the door, and he’ll go,” said Tom.

“Oh, no, no, Tom,” cried her ladyship. “Sir Grantley’s present.”

Just then the dog seemed to have satisfied his anger upon his rival, and crossing the room to where Maude sat trembling in her chair, he dropped the defunct terrier at her feet, and stood solemnly wagging his stump of a tail as if asking for praise.

“Ring the bell, Tryphie,” cried her ladyship.

“All right,” said Tom, forestalling her, and Robbins came up with stately stride.

“Take this down, Robbins,” said her ladyship, with a shudder.

The butler looked ineffably disgusted, but he merely turned upon his heel, strode out of the room, and returned at the end of a minute or two with a silver salver and a napkin, picked up the sixteen guineas with the latter, placed it upon the former, covered it with the damask, and bore the dead dog solemnly out, Joby following him closely, as if turning himself into chief mourner, and then seeing the hall door open trotting slowly out.

“That I should have lived to be the mother of such—”

Her ladyship did not finish her sentence but rose with dilating eyes, made a sort of heavy rush and bound across the room, pounced upon something and began eagerly to inspect it, tearing open a little narrow pocket and extracting a note.

Poor Joby! he did not mean to be so faithless to his trust, but the excitement consequent upon the attack had made the muscles of his throat swell to such a degree that his collar fastening had snapped, and the collar with its valuable missive had fallen upon the carpet, while poor Maude had sat wondering where it had gone.

“Yes, of course,” said her ladyship, sarcastically. “Well: that trick is detected,” she cried, viciously tearing up the note. “Letters sent by a dog, by one of the vilest of the vile; and this, Diphoos, is the man you called your friend.”

“Oh, aunt, pray be silent,” cried Tryphie, running to her cousin’s side. “Maude has fainted.”

Chapter Eleven.

The Exile.

That morning Monsieur Hector Launay was happy. He had been to Portland Place, acted as executioner to the mole upon her ladyship’s chin, buried it beneath the court plaster, been paid his bill, and in going out squeezed Justine’s hand, and—Ah, oui mes amis—she had squeezed it again.

“Yes, yes,” he had cried, joyously, as he returned, with the recollection of Justine’s bright eyes making his own sparkle, “encore a little more of this isle of fogs and rheums and spleen, encore a little more of the hard cash to be made here, encore a little too much more wait, and then cette chère Justine and la France—la France—Tralla-la—Tralla-la—Tralla-la.”

From this it will be seen that Monsieur Hector Launay was joyous. It was his nature to be joyous, but he suppressed it beneath a solemn mask as of wax. He was as immovable as a rule as his own gentleman; that is to say, the waxen image of his craft which looked down Upper Gimp Street from the shop window—the gentleman who was married to the handsome lady with the graceful turn to her neck, who always looked up Upper Gimp Street from morning till night, saving at such times as Monsieur Hector Launay hung old copies of the Figaro or Petit Journal before them, lest the heat of the summer sun should visit their cheeks too roughly. In fact, a neglect of this on one occasion had resulted in the wax “giving” a little, and the lady having a slight attack of mumps.

These dwellers in a happy atmosphere behind glass were the acmé of perfection in the dressing of their hair, the lady’s being the longest and the gentleman’s the shortest possible to conceive. So short was the latter’s, in fact, that it might have been used to brush that of the former; and so occupied were they in gazing up and down the street that they might have been the spies who furnished Monsieur Hector Launay with the abundant information he possessed respecting the élite who lived in a wide circle round his dwelling in that most strange of London regions—mysterious Marylebone.

He was a slim, genteel, sallow gentleman, polite in the extreme, always the perfection of cleanliness, and, as Lord Barmouth said, smelling as if made of scented soap. His eyes were of the darkest, so was his hair, which was cut to the pattern in the window. He had a carefully-waxed and pointed moustache, but shaved the rest of his face as religiously as he did that of Lord Barmouth, every morning, passing his hand over the skin and seeming to be always hunting for one particular bristle, which evaded him.

It has been said that he might be supposed to have gained his information about the various people around by means of his two wax figures, who afterwards communicated their knowledge to him in some occult way, though the theory might hold water that the thoughts of people’s brains radiated to the ends of their hairs which were often cut off and remained in the possession of the barber for distillation, sale, or the fire.

Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to join in this or that conspiracy.

“No,” he would say, “it is ignoble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and shave and cut and dress, but it is safe. Ma foi, no,” he would say, “I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked by the cannibals of that happy land.”

Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form of eau sucrée or a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sang chansons, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair.

“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “I know what is immense. Ladies place themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never, never. A coiffeur in a good district is the repository of the grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but, ma foi, no, I never betray. I am a man of trust.”

Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man’s hair.

“That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?”

“What do you mean?” said Melton sharply.

“Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They suspect yonder.”

Melton turned and gazed at him angrily.

“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “it is a tender subject, but I go so much that I come to know nearly all.”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth’s hair; that the Miladi Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog.”

Something very like an imprecation came from the young man’s lips, but he restrained it.

“Monsieur may trust me,” said the hairdresser. “Mademoiselle Justine is a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady of wax? She is exact. It is she—encore.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Melton, drily.

“Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass our days in simple happy joys.”

“Look here,” said Melton, bluntly, “I am an Englishman, and always speak plainly. You know all about me—about the house in Portland Place?”

“Everything, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow. “Mademoiselle Justine is désolée about the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old, bête, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur—we lovers—and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish to trust a dog.”

“How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?” said Melton furiously.

“Ma foi, monsieur is angry. Why so, with one who would serve him? Justine loves you—I then love you. How do I know?”—a shrug here—“monsieur is indiscrét. Justine could not fail to see.”

“Confusion!” ejaculated Melton.

“And yet it is so easy, monsieur—a note—a cake of soap—a packet of bloom—a bottle of scent—it is wrapped up—for Miladi Maude with my printed card outside—Voilà! who could suspect?”

“Look here,” said Melton, turning sharply round.

“Pardon, monsieur, I use the scissor; there is a little fresh growth here.”

“What do you expect to be paid for this, if I trust you?—and perhaps I shall not, for it is confoundedly dirty work.”

“Pardon, monsieur,” cried the Frenchman, laying his hand upon his breast, “I am a gentleman. Pay? Noting. Have I not told you that Justine, whom I have the honour to love, adores her young mistress. She adores monsieur, and would serve him. I in my turn adore Mademoiselle Justine. I am her slave—I am yours.”

“Let’s see—Justine? That is her ladyship’s maid?”

“True, monsieur. But this morning she say to me—‘Hector, mon enfant, I’m désolée on the subject of those two children. Help them, mon garçon, and I will be benefactor.’”

“It is good, I say to her, and I place myself at monsieur’s disposition.”

Charles Melton frowned, and Monsieur Hector went on with his shampooing, till the head between his hands was dried, polished, and finished, when the hairdresser took up a little ivory brush, and anointed it with some fragrant preparation to be applied in its turn to the patient’s beard, till the fair hair glistened like gold, and Monsieur Hector fell back and looked at him in admiration.

“But monsieur is fit now for the arms of a goddess,” he exclaimed. “Does he accept my assistance?”

Melton looked at him for a moment, as he paid the fee usual upon such occasions, and then said bluntly—

“Monsieur Launay, I am obliged to you, and you mean well. Doubtless Mademoiselle Justine means well, and she has my thanks, but I cannot accept your assistance. Good mom—Ah, Joby, old fellow.”

He drew back into the little room as the dog came hastily in, and placed his head against his master’s leg.

“Why, Joby,” exclaimed Melton, in a low excited tone, “where is your collar? Blood too! You have been fighting. Good heavens! what shall I do!—If that note is found!—Oh, my poor darling!” he muttered, and he hurried from the place.

Chapter Twelve.

La Belle Alliance.

“It’s enough to drive a man to do anything,” exclaimed Melton, as he dashed down the fashionable newspaper he had been reading, where in a short paragraph he had found that which he told himself would make him wretched for life. The paragraph was as follows—

“We understand that an alliance is on the tapis between Sir Grantley Wilters, of Morley Hall, Shropshire, and Eaton Place, and Lady Maude Diphoos, daughter of the Earl of Barmouth.”

“I seem to be crushed,” exclaimed the young man, rising and walking hastily up and down the room. “Everything goes wrong with me, and I believe I am going mad. Perhaps it is fate,” he said, gloomily, “and how to save that poor girl from wretchedness! Heigho! Joby, old fellow, I wish I could forget the unpleasant things, and then perhaps there would be some comfort in life.

“Now, what’s to be done?” he cried, as his eyes fell again upon the newspaper. “I cannot bear this. Here’s a whole month since I have heard from or seen poor little Maude, for I haven’t the heart to try any more of those clandestine tricks.”

He sat down and thought over the past month and its incidents, taking out and re-reading a note with Lady Barmouth’s crest upon it, in which her ladyship very curtly requested that Mr Melton would refrain from calling in Portland Place, for after what had occurred she could only look upon his visits as an insult. She wrote this at the request of Lord Barmouth.

“That is a monstrous fib,” said Charley Melton, angrily, “for the amiable little old man was always most friendly. But what shall I do? I must see her; I must hear from her. They are forcing this on with the poor girl, and it is like blasting her young life.

“Tom!” he ejaculated, after a pause. “No; he has not answered either of my last letters. There is something wrong there.”

He sat thinking again.

“Confound it all! It is so contemptible. I hate it, but what can I do? I must send a note through that Frenchman. Pah! how I loathe this backstairs work, but what can I do? I am debarred the front stairs, which are open to that confounded roué Wilters.”

He stamped up and down the room again till there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he cried, and a groom entered.

“Please, sir, master’s compliments, and—and—I beg your pardon, sir, he’d be much obliged if you wouldn’t stamp up and down the room so. He’s got a bad headache, and you’re just over him.”

“Was that the message your master sent?” exclaimed Melton, for the groom was the servant of an acquaintance who had chambers on the floor below.

“Well, sir—no, sir—not exactly, sir,” said the man, suppressing an inclination to smile.

“What did he say then?”

“Please, sir, he said, ‘Run up and ask Mr Melton if he’s going mad,’ and he shied one of his boots at me.”

“Tell him yes, raving mad,” said Melton savagely; and the man went down.

“It’s fate, I suppose,” he said at last: “and it seems as if I am to give her up.”

For from that fatal day when the toy terrier had been slain Joby had stood in the same category as his master—Lady Maude was not at home to the canine caller, and after many efforts to obtain access to his mistress, Charley Melton was nearly in despair.

He had tried the post, and his letters had been returned. He had tried the servants and mutual friends, but given up both in disgust for Maude’s sake, being unwilling to cause her fresh anxieties and pain.

“It is so confoundedly undignified,” he said to himself. “I can’t think of a plan that is safe. But never mind, patience—and something will turn up. We must wait. I can get a look at my darling now and then, and that must do till better days arrive.”

But human nature has its bounds of endurance, and after seeing Maude one day in the Park in company with washed-out, overdressed Sir Grantley Wilters, Charley Melton could bear it no more.

“What’s the good of living in this confounded England,” he exclaimed, “where a man cannot wring his rival’s neck or knock out his enemy’s brains without there being a row. I must do it, there is no other means that I can see but I’ll have one more try first.”

He went off straight to Portland Place, and as he came within sight of the house, to his great delight he caught sight of Maude in the large covered space with its huge pots of evergreens over the portico. She was leaning on the railing and gazing pensively down, and as Charley Melton drew nearer he found that she was listening to the music of a loud-toned organ played by a tall, broad-shouldered, swarthy Italian, who waved his hand and raised his hat, and smiled and bowed till the lady dropped something white into his extended felt broad brim, in response to which he kissed his hand, and the lady still looked down.

Charley Melton thought little of it at the moment as he crossed the road, when just as he was half-way across the broad way Maude raised her head, saw him, and fled quickly into the house.

“She needn’t have been in such a precious hurry,” said Melton to himself; “but never mind, I’ll make a big effort to see her this time, at all events.”

He went boldly across the pavement to reach the front door and ring, and as he did so Luigi Malsano followed him, turning his handle the while.

“Ah, signore!” he whined, as he smiled and showed his white teeth, “povero Italiano.”

“Yes, you handsome scoundrel,” said Charley Melton to himself, “I should like your poverty. Allowed to come here, and rewarded by her in her gentle love and kindliness. What is the scoundrel glaring at?”

For Luigi’s eyes seemed to him to emit a peculiarly sinister or baleful glare that was not pleasant.

“No, no, go away!” said Melton impatiently.

Just then the door opened, and Robbins the pompous appeared.

“Not at home, sir,” he said, before he was asked.

“Take my card, Robbins, and ask Lord Barmouth to see me.”

“I dursen’t, sir; I dursen’t indeed,” said the butler in a whisper. “It’s more than my place is worth, sir, and his lordship couldn’t see you, he couldn’t indeed.”

“Why not?”

Robbins “made a face” which was quite expressive enough, for Charley Melton read it to mean “the dragon wouldn’t let him,” and with a feeling of bitterness and rage which nearly tempted him to kick the organ-grinder into the gutter, he turned and walked away, to go straight from thence to Upper Gimp Street, where he found the handsome hairdresser rearranging the costume of his waxen lady dummy.

“Ah, m’sieu; yes, I am quite at liberty. Entrez, m’sieu.”

Charley Melton confounded his “Ah, monsieur” with the Italian’s “Ah, signore,” and he walked into the saloon, and stood for a few minutes in silence thinking, while Monsieur Hector suggested hair-cutting, shampooing, scent, singeing, and other matters connected with his profession.

“Look here, Mr Launay,” he said at last.

“M’sieu, s’il vous plait, m’sieu, it is the only pleasant reminder of my own clime.”

“Monsieur Launay then—”

“I am at your service, m’sieu.”

“Some time back, when I was here, you were good enough to make me the offer of your services.”

“Certainement, m’sieu.”

“Monsieur Launay, what you have said is a profound secret between us? As a French gentleman, I trust to your honour.”

“Sare, I am the repository of the secrets of the aristocratic classes.”

“Then perhaps I shall trust you.”

“And monsieur accepts the offer of my services?”

“I cannot say yet—I will call again.”

Charley Melton left the place and went along the street, for he could get no farther that day. He felt degraded, and the words choked him; but Monsieur Launay snatched a copy of Le Petit Journal from over the head of his gentleman, whose fixed eyes followed the young man as he went slowly along the pavement with Joby close at his heels.

“C’est fait?” exclaimed Monsieur Launay. “Justine, mon ange, I shall obey you and save Monsieur Melton—Ma foi! what a name! They will be happy, and then I—Ah, la France—la bel-le,” he sang, “at last I shall return to you a rich man. Oh, but it was quite plain: he had sent a note by the dogue, and the boule-dogue had lost it and his collar. But what it is to be ingenious—to have of the spirit! If I rase and cut hair, I starve myself, but if I make myself of great use to all around, I grow rich. Live the secrets! Justine, you will be mine at last.

“Aha!—it is good,” he continued, “I have another secret to keep... This is the bureau aux secrets. He had not remarked the likeness to my adorable. It is beautiful, and she was jalouse when I say I love my lady of wax. Cette chérie. But, ma foi! I must be busy over my other affairs; there is the coiffure of the Grande Barmouth to prepare. Aha, Milady La Grande, you will call ma chérie bête, chouette, stupide, and trouble her poor sweet soul. Now I shall have my revenge, and be on ze best of terms as you say all ze time. La—la—la—la—la—la. Par-tir pour la guer-re—la guer-re. Ces braves soldats.”

He sang on in a low tone, and began to comb some of Lady Barmouth’s falsities, and while he combed he smiled, and when Monsieur Hector smiled he was making plans.

“Vive les conspirateurs!” he cried; and then prepared for his primitive repast.

Being a bachelor at present, he cooked for himself behind a little screen over a gas-stove; sometimes it was food, sometimes strange cosmetiques and chemical preparations for beautifying his clients. This day it was food preparation, and, manipulated by Monsieur Hector, one kidney became a wonderful dish, swimming in gravy. Tiny bits of meat reappeared brown and appetising: and he was great upon soup, which he made with half a pint of water, some vegetables, and a disc cut off what seemed to be so much glue in a sausage skin.

But he lived well upon a small income, and partook of grand salads, water souchées made of one herring, biftek-aux-pommes, café, eau sucrée, and cigarette.

One gas-burner cooked, boiled, and stewed, and his cleanliness and saving ways enabled him to afford his game at billiards; and to pass for a Parisian of the first water under a political cloud.

“Ah!” he said, as he smoked his one cigarette, “when will he return with a letter for his beloafed? Soon. But stop—what is a letter to a meeting? Ha, ha! I have a plan. Wait till he come once more, and then—ha, ha! how la Justine will laugh! Vive l’amour.

“Yes, the ruse, one that your foggy head, ros-bif Anglais could never devise, but which I, Hector of the sunny France, threw off at once. Oorai, as we say in thees deesmal country. Vive l’amour. One—two—three days; when will he come? Any veek, and then—vive l’amour.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Sir Grantley is Agitated.

Lady Barmouth was in great trouble, and resembled more strongly than ever the heaving billows. She had been so agitated several times lately that she had found it necessary to take medicinally red lavender drops, or else eau de Cologne, the latter by preference for its fragrance.

She was terribly troubled, for matters had not gone so satisfactorily as she could wish. There had been a death in Sir Grantley Wilters’ family, and that gentleman had been unwell too, thanks to a fresh medicine man he had tried.

“And really,” said her ladyship, “that ungrateful child Maude does not show the slightest sympathy.”

“Fool if she did,” said Tom, who was in the drawing-room. “What’s that fellow Bellman been here for again?”

“To see Tryphie, of course,” said her ladyship.

Tom was about to make some angry reply, when Maude came in with Lord Barmouth leaning upon her arm, fresh from a walk, and Sir Grantley Wilters, most carefully got up in deep mourning, following behind with Tryphie.

“Now I appeal to your ladyship,” said Sir Grantley, as soon as the door was closed.

“There, there, there,” said Lord Barmouth, “let me tell it to her ladyship. It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and—and—and,” he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, “I won’t have my little girl here troubled about it.”

“For Heaven’s sake, behave like a gentleman if you can,” whispered her ladyship.

“Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will,” said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door.

“No, ’pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude,” said Sir Grantley. “It concerns you so much, don’t you know. Fact is, Lady Barmouth,” he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them—“fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude’s handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped.”

“Well, suppose a dog did,” said Tom coming to his sister’s rescue; “I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose.”

“He, he, he!” chuckled his lordship; “that’s not bad, Tom;” while her ladyship looked daggers.

“Doosed good—very doosed good,” said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom. “If it had been another dog, it wouldn’t have mattered, but it was—er—er—er—a very particular dog.”

“Just as I said—over his nose,” said Tom.

“It—it—it was Charley Melton’s dog,” said Lord Barmouth, and Maude’s face became crimson.

“Yes, and that’s the dayvle of it,” said Sir Grantley, angrily. “I don’t choose for that fler’s dog to come and take such a liberty. He was—er—hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship’s pocket, here, don’t you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief. Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do—damme!”

Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him. This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up.

Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come. So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.

“Really, Sir Grantley, it was very tiresome,” said her ladyship.

“He, he, he!” laughed his lordship, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and bending down in his chair to laugh with all the enjoyment of a schoolboy at Tom’s monkeyish trick.

“My dear!” exclaimed her ladyship.

“I—I—I was laughing at the con—con—confounded impudence of that dog,” said his lordship, mendaciously; and her ladyship mentally promised him one of her lectures.

“It was an accident that cannot possibly occur again,” continued her ladyship. “Maude, my darling, pray go and take off your things. Sir Grantley, you will stay lunch?”

“Thanks, no,” said the baronet, changing his position, giving his hat a turn, and flourishing out the Bath bun, which fell upon the carpet before him.

Her ladyship put up her eye-glass and stared at the bun; Sir Grantley gave his an extra twist and also stared at the bun, poking at it with his stick; and Maude and Tryphie escaped from the room.

“Didn’t know you were so fond of buns, Wilters,” said Tom. “You should have them put in a paper bag. They make your hat lining sticky.”

“That’s doosed funny, Diphoos,” said Sir Grantley. “Very fond of a joke. By the way, the amateurs are going to get up a pantomime next season. Won’t you join them? I’ll put in a word for you. Make a doosed good clown, don’t you know.—I think I had him there,” said the baronet to himself.

“I will, if you’ll play pantaloon,” said Tom sharply. “You’d look the part to perfection.”

“Yas, doosed good,” said Sir Grantley. “Day, Lady Barmouth; must go. Day, Lord Barmouth;” and with a short nod at Tom, he left the house.

“Tom,” exclaimed her ladyship, “if you insult Sir Grantley any more like that you shall suffer for it. If you behave like that, you will be the means of breaking off a most brilliant match.”

“Thanks,” said Tom, quietly, as her ladyship was sailing out of the room. “You can’t make things worse for me.”

“Tom, my boy,” said his lordship, “you are—are—are—a regular lion, that you are. I don’t know what I should do without you.”

“Fight for yourself, father, I hope,” said the viscount, smiling, “I’m afraid I do more harm than good.”

Meanwhile, Sir Grantley Wilters, who had not the slightest thought of breaking off the match, let Diphoos behave as he would, went to keep a particular engagement that he had with Monsieur Hector Launay, who was singing away to himself about “La—Fran-ce—et—la—guer-re,” and standing before a glass with a pair of scissors cutting his black hair close to his skull.

He was ready on the instant, though, as Sir Grantley entered, showed him into his private room, and upon the baronet stating his case, to wit, his uneasiness about his hair, which he said was getting thin on the crown, gave the most earnest attention to the subject.

“I shouldn’t mind so much,” said Sir Grantley; “but I’m—er—going to be mar’d shortly, and I want to look my best.”

Monsieur Hector took a magnifying glass from a drawer, and gravely inspected the crown before him, ending by assuring the baronet that by the use of certain washes prepared by himself from peculiar and unique receipts he could restore the hairs that made him slightly thin upon the crown.

Sir Grantley, in full faith, resigned himself to the coiffeur’s hands, and was sponged and rubbed and scented during a space of about an hour, when he rose and paid a liberal fee, which made Monsieur Hector smile and bow.

Then he turned to go, but stopped short at the door and came back.

“Oh, Monsieur Launay, I’m told that you are a great friend of Mademoiselle Justine, Lady Barmouth’s maid.”

“I have that honour, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, bowing low.

“Ah, yes,” said Sir Grantley, hesitating. “By the way, I am Sir Grantley Wilters.”

“I have heard mademoiselle mention Sir Vilter,” said the hairdresser, bowing.

“Yes, of course,” said the baronet. “Look here, don’t you know, I’m engaged to Lady Maude Diphoos, and I want to save her from pain. No spying—moucharder—but I should be glad to hear of anything that you think might interest me. Mademoiselle Justine will tell you better what I mean. Good-day.”

“Bah!—Phit!—Pst! Big John Bull, fool!” cried Monsieur Hector as soon as he was alone; and he indulged in a peculiar saltatory exercise, indicative of kicking his client in the chest, and making derisive gestures with pointed fingers. “You think I tell you what I know. Pst! Grand bête. Big thin beast. Cochon. Peeg! Come and be shampooed, and I had you by the nose and tell you noting. Aha! Be your spy? No. Justine tells me all, and I know so much that my head is full. But wait you. Aha! Sir Vilter! wait you. Vive l’amour.”

He folded the cloth that had been spread over Sir Grantley’s shoulders with a jerk, and was in the act of putting it away, when something touched his leg, and looking down, it was to see Joby, and directly after Charley Melton entered the room.

Chapter Fourteen.

Lady Maude’s Hair comes off.

It was very singular, and showed weakness, but Maude Diphoos, who had hitherto looked with contempt upon her ladyship’s dealings with Monsieur Hector, laughing at the idea of using washes, powder, and the like, as pure water made her beautiful fair hair cluster about her clear white temples, and hang round a neck whose skin put the most cleverly concocted pearl powder in the shade, now seemed to become somewhat of a convert to his powers.

Justine confided to her mistress that Miladi Maude’s hair was coming off in great patches, horrifying her ladyship so that she gave Lord Barmouth no sleep all one night, and the next morning when she drilled the servants, and inspected them as to smartness of livery, amount of hairpowder used, and the rest, they confided to one another that the old girl’s temper was not to be borne.

“What would dear Sir Grantley say if he knew?” she exclaimed; and hurrying to her secret chamber, she rang for Justine, when a long consultation ensued.

“Cer-tainly, milady, if you like,” said the dark Frenchwoman; “but that is the way to make the servants in the hall talk—they are so low—and do tattle so. Then it come to Sir Grantley’s groom’s ears, and Sir Grantley’s groom tell Sir Vilter, and ze mischief is all made.”

“Yes, Justine; but what can I do, my good soul? I would not care if they were married; it would not matter a bit. Now, don’t exaggerate, Justine—great patches do you say?”

Justine tightened her lips and plunged one hand into the pocket of her apron to draw forth a tuft of soft fair hair and hold it up before her ladyship.

“Oh, Justine!” she half shrieked, sighing and heaving billowy, “this is dreadful. Poor child, she will be nearly bald. Oh, Justine, whatever you do, preserve your hair. I know of a case where a lady of title became an old maid when she might have had a great establishment, all through losing her hair.”