She locked her door again, after we had arranged
that I should come in and see her the first thing
in the morning.

I had a few sentences more to add to my
diary, before going to bed myself; and, as I
went down again to the drawing-room, after
leaving Laura, for the last time that weary day,
I resolved merely to show myself there, to make
my excuses, and then to retire an hour earlier
than usual, for the night.

Sir Percival, and the Count and his wife, were
sitting together. Sir Percival was yawning in
an easy-chair; the Count was reading; Madame
Fosco was fanning herself. Strange to say, her
face was flushed, now. She, who never suffered
from the heat, was most undoubtedly suffering
from it to-night.

"I am afraid, Countess, you are not quite so
well as usual?" I said.

"The very remark I was about to make to
you" she replied. "You are looking pale, my
dear."

My dear! It was the first time she had ever
addressed me with that familiarity! There was
an insolent smile, too, on her face when she
said the words.

"I am suffering from one of my bad headaches,"
I answered, coldly.

"Ah, indeed? Want of exercise, I suppose?
A walk before dinner would have been just the
thing for you." She referred to the "walk" with
a strange emphasis. Had she seen me go out?
No matter if she had. The letters were safe,
now, in Fanny's hands.

"Come, and have a smoke, Fosco," said Sir
Percival, rising, with another uneasy look at his
friend.

"With pleasure, Percival, when the ladies
have gone to bed," replied the Count.

"Excuse me, Countess, if I set you the
example of retiring," I said. "The only remedy
for such a headache as mine is going to bed."

I took my leave. There was the same insolent
smile on the woman's face when I shook
hands with her. Sir Percival paid no attention
to me. He was looking impatiently at Madame
Fosco, who showed no signs of leaving the room
with me. The Count smiled to himself behind
his book. There was yet another delay to that
quiet talk with Sir Percival—and the Countess
was the impediment, this time.

Once safely shut into my own room, I
opened these pages, and prepared to go on
with that part of the day's record which was
still left to write.

For ten minutes or more, I sat idle, with
the pen in my hand, thinking over the event
of the last twelve hours. When I at last
addressed myself to my task, I found a
difficulty in proceeding with it which I had never
experienced before. In spite of my efforts
to fix my thoughts on the matter in hand,
they wandered away, with the strangest
persistency, in the one direction of Sir Percival
and the Count; and all the interest which I
tried to concentrate on my journal, centred,
instead, on that private interview between them,
which had been put off all through the day, and
which was now to take place in the silence and
solitude of the night.

In this perverse state of my mind, the recollection
of what had passed since the morning
would not come back to me; and there was no
resource but to close my journal and to get away
from it for a little while.

I opened the door which led from my bedroom
into my sitting-room, and, having passed
through, pulled it to again, to prevent any
accident, in case of draught, with the candle left
on the dressing-table. My sitting-room window
was wide open; and I leaned out, listlessly, to
look at the night.

It was dark and quiet. Neither moon nor
stars were visible. There was a smell like rain
in the still, heavy air; and I put my hand out
of window. No. The rain was only threatening;
it had not come yet.

     MORE VERY COMMON LAW.

BEFORE entering upon a further consideration
of Mr. Blank's responsibility for the acts of
his servants, let us mention one other sufficient
cause for dismissal. Should Mr. Blank find
his servant, after trial, to be utterly incompetent
to perform the duties which he has
undertaken, the law will allow Mr. Blank to
dismiss him. As Lord Ellenborough has said, "the
master is not bound to keep him (the incompetent
domestic) on, as a burdensome and useless
servant to the end of the year."

Mr. Justice Willes has laid down the law so
clearly upon this point, that we have no
hesitation in introducing the "ipsissima verba" of
that learned judge into our pages. "When
a skilled labourer, artisan, or artist, is
employed, there is, on his part, an implied
warranty that he is of skill reasonably competent to
the task he undertakes—'spondes peritiam artis.'
Thus, if an apothecary, a watchmaker, an attorney,
be employed for reward, they each impliedly
undertake to possess and exercise reasonable
skill in their respective arts. The public
profession of an art is a representation and
undertaking to all the world that the professor
possesses the requisite ability and skill. An
express promise or express representation in the
particular case is not necessary. It may be
that if there is no general and no particular
representation of ability and skill, the workman
undertakes no responsibility. If a gentleman,
for example, should employ a man that is known
to have never done anything but sweep a crossing,
to clean or mend his watch, the employer
would probably be held to have incurred all risk
himself. The next question is this: supposing
that, when the skill and competency of the party
employed are tested by the employment, he is
found to be utterly incompetent, is the employer
bound nevertheless to go on employing him to
the end of the term for which he is engaged,
notwithstanding his incompetency? It seems
very unreasonable that an employer should be