Ladyship—for he could not always smile
complacently when she manifested her normal
unconsciousness that anybody could have
anything to do, not entirely dependent on
his or her own pleasure and convenience—
"as it happened, I had not to go. A few
days after I told his lordship the
particulars of the sale of land, I had a letter
informing me that the matter was all off
for the present."

"Indeed!" said Lord Hetherington, "a
doosed bore for Langley, isn't it? He has
been wanting to pick up something in that
neighbourhood for a long time. But the
sale will ultimately come off, I suppose,
unless some one buys the land over Langley's
head by private contract."

"There's no fear of that, I think," said
Mr. Gould; "but I took precautions. I
should not like Sir John to lose the slice
off Woolgreaves he wants. The place is in
a famous hunting country, and the plans
are settled upon—like Sir John, isn't it?—-
for his hunting box."

"I don't know that part of Hampshire at
all," said Lord Hetherington, delighted at
finding a subject on which he could induce
one of his guests to talk, without his being
particularly bound to listen. "Very rich and
rural, isn't it? Why didn't the—ah, the person
  —sell the land Langley wanted there?''

"For rather a melancholy reason,"
replied Mr. Gould, while Lady Hetherington
and the others looked bored by anticipation.
Rather inconsiderate and bad taste
of Mr. Gould to tell about "melancholy
reasons" in a society which only his
presence and that of the secretary rendered
at all "mixed." But Mr. Gould, who was
rather full of the subject, and who had the
characteristic—so excellent in a man of
business in business hours, but a little tiresome
in social moments—of believing that
nothing could equal in interest his clients'
affairs, or in importance his clients
themselves, went on, quite regardless of the
strong apathy in the face of the countess.
"The letter which prevented my going
down to Woolgreaves on the appointed
day was written by a lady residing in the
house, to inform me that the owner of the
property, a Mr. Creswell, very well known
in those parts, had lost his only son, and
was totally unfit to attend to any business.
The boy was killed, I understand, by a
fall from his pony."

"Tom Creswell killed!" exclaimed Walter
Joyce, in a tone which directed the attention
of every one at the table to the "secretary."

"I beg your pardon," Joyce went on,
"but will you kindly tell me all you know
of this matter? I know Mr. Creswell, and
I knew this boy well. Are you sure of the
fact of his death?"

The paleness of Walter's face, the intensity
of his tone, held Lady Caroline's attention
fixed upon him. How handsome he was,
and the man could evidently feel too! How
nice it would be to make him feel, to see
the face pale, and to hear the voice deepen,
like that, for her. It would be quite new.
She had any amount of flirtation always at
hand, whenever she chose to summon its
aid in passing the time, but feeling did not
come at call, and she had never had much
of that given her. These were the thoughts
of only a moment, flashing through her
mind before Mr. Gould had time to answer
Joyce's appeal.

"I am sorry I mentioned the fact at so
inappropriate a time," said Mr. Gould, "but
still more sorry that there is no doubt
whatever of its truth. Indeed, I think I can
show you the letter." Mr. Gould wore a
dress coat, of course, but he could not have
dined comfortably, if he had not transferred
a mass of papers from his morning-coat to
its pockets. This mass he extricated with
some difficulty, and selecting one, methodically
endorsed with the date of its receipt,
from the number, he handed it to Walter.

Lady Hetherington was naturally shocked
at the infringement of the bienséances caused
by this unfortunate incident, and was glancing
from Mr. Gould to Mr. Joyce, from one
element of the "mixture" in the assembled
society to the other, with no pleasant
expression of countenance—when Lady
Caroline came to the rescue, with gracefulness,
deftness, lightness, all her own, and by
starting an easy unembarrassed conversation
with the gentleman opposite to her, in
which she skilfully included her immediate
neighbours, she dissipated all the restraints
which had temporarily fallen upon the party.
Something interesting to the elevated minds
of the party, something different from the
unpleasantness of a boy's being killed, whom
nobody knew anything about, at a place
which did not belong to anybody,—and the
character of the dinner party, momentarily
threatened, was triumphantly retrieved.

Walter saw that the letter which Mr.
Gould handed him was in Marian's writing.
It contained an announcement of the
calamity which had occurred, and an intimation
that Mr. Creswell could not attend to
any matters of business at present. That
was all. Walter read the brief letter with