WRECKED IN PORT.
A SERIAL STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP."

BOOK II.
CHAPTER VIII. DURING THE INTERVAL.

SATURDAY morning, the day after that on
which Joyce had sent off the eventful letter
to Marian. Twelve o'clock, and no appearance
as yet of Lady Caroline Mansergh,
who had sent word that she had a slight
headache, and would take her breakfast in
her room. Lady Hetherington hated people
having breakfast in their rooms; it did not,
of course, inconvenience her in the least;
she herself was never particularly lively in
the morning, and spoke very little, and
disliked being spoken to; so that it was not
the loss of companionship that she
regretted; it was merely what people called
a "fad" of hers, that the household
generally should assemble at the breakfast-table,
and she was annoyed when anything
occurred to prevent it.

Her ladyship was generally out of temper
that morning, several things having
conspired to disturb her equanimity. They
were about to move the establishment to
London; which was always a sore trial for
her at the best of times; but now that they
were going up before Easter, it was
specially hard to bear. She had told Lord
Hetherington, as she pathetically narrated
both orally and by letter to all her friends,
that it was useless their going to Hetherington
House at that time of the year, when
they would find no one in town but
members' wives who have come up for the
session, and the wretched people who live
there all their lives; there wouldn't be a
soul they knew, and the draughts at
Hetherington House were perfectly awful;
and yet Lord Hetherington would go; she
could not imagine what had come to him.
The last morning's post had brought her a
letter from her milliner, asking for money;
and even the greatest ladies sometimes not
merely dislike being asked for money, but
have difficulty in finding it; and the
countess's stock of ready cash happened to
be very low at that moment. And the new
housekeeper who had come from Lady
Rundell Glasse's, and who was so highly
recommended, had turned out a complete
failure, and must be got rid of before they
go to town; and old Mrs. Mason, the
town housekeeper, must be telegraphed to
to look out for some one else; and,
altogether, her ladyship was thoroughly upset,
and, wanting some one to vent her
ill-humour on, and having lost her judgment
as well as her temper, thought she would
find that some one in Lady Caroline. So,
when twelve o'clock arrived, and her sister-
in-law had not put in an appearance,
the countess went to her room, entered
upon her knock, and found Lady Caroline
buried in a huge chair in front of the fire,
reading a book, while her maid was combing
her hair. There was scarcely anything
which Lady Caroline liked better than
having her hair combed—not dressed, that
she hated—but quietly combed and brushed
alternately. She almost purred under the
sensation, like a cat whose fur is smoothed
the right way; it was pleasant, it was
refreshing, it soothed her, and put her on
good terms with the world; so that when
she looked up and saw Lady Hetherington
to whom she was not very partial, she
received her with a smile, and expressed her
delight at the visit.

"It is really immensely good of you to
come and see me, Margaret, especially
when I know you're not fond of taking
trouble in a general way," she said, putting