She was delighted with Major Carter's quiet air
of the world, with his calm "weight" of manner,
and readiness of speech. The others seemed
untrained children near him. When his cold eye
fell upon them, the two clergymen did not like
the sensation.

One little transaction firmly established him as
suggesting the association of intellectual power,
and the command of men's minds. The two
clergymen were sitting with her one afternoon,
when the "main" of tea had been laid on. Mr.
Punsher Hill's figure was round, coarse, and
Jersey pear-shaped. It was like a Seal in clerical
attire. His face was red and brawn-like, and
his throat but awkwardly confined in heavy folds
of linen. But Mr. Hoblush's spiritual dress, and
the figure which that dress enclosed, was all
elegance. It was shapely, uncreased, unfolded,
and unwrinkled. His coat or mantle seemed to
flow downwards, and with such a low full grace,
that there seemed a hint—a sort of little artifice
—as of an apron present. His voice was soft and
tender. He could not sing, but he played "a
little" on the violincello.

Major Carter came in as they were busy on
the "Mount Horeb" Chapel. The Rev. Alfred
Hoblush was tolerant of all denominations. But
Mrs. Wrigley was not so interested in these
matters as she used to be. She talked to them
of Lord Putnenham's coming music.

"I have done what I could," said the Rev.
Alfred, sweetly, "but I have not sufficient interest.
I would give the world to be there myself."

As for Mr. Hill, it was understood, without
allusion, that his walks were not the Putnenham
walks. No reference was made to him.

Suddenly entered the worldling Carter, who
began to chatter airily and delightfully on
mundane topics—bringing in a little legend about
Lady Mantower and Mrs. Weynam Lake—
serving them delicately to Mrs. Wrigley as
though they had been morsels of warm toast
spread with marrow. The clergy present looked
at him ruefully. "All the world," continued the
worldling, "is crowding to this Putnenham party,
and his wife, of course. More the wife, perhaps,
than the world;" and then he worked this text
pleasurably and fluently for a half-hour, and
then rose to go. He put his head in again.
"By the way, Mrs. Wrigley," he said, "I had a
message, which I had forgotten. Strictly in
private, though." He whispered, "I have
ventured on a great liberty, but that is all right—
the Putnenham affair, you know. It will come
tonight. But a profound secret, I stipulate that."

The surpassing delicacy with which Major
Carter had transacted this little affair—his
anticipation of her wishes—from that hour
established his supremacy.

CHAPTER XII. LORD PUTNENHAM'S LITTLE PARTY.

THE Town knew Lord Putnenham very well.
He was sometimes darkly mentioned as the "noble
Amateur." He was a musical lord, had played
"a little," ie. execrably, on a hoary Cremona
violin, and gave a little musical senate laws.
There was no Lady Putnenham, and so, through
his fine house in Dover-street, strange and
protracted agonies were heard, as of a maiden
wailing, which was the musical lord busy with
his "scales;" and in the musical house sheets of
music lay tossed here and there, high and dry on
chairs and cabinets, floating wildly on the carpet,
as though there had been a wreck, and a great
musical Indiaman had gone to pieces in the
drawing-room. The musical lord going about
on duty, sat as a musical magistrate, and
had cases brought before him, on which he
passed judgment. New harmonious gipsies,
eager to get a hearing, and who had brought
either a voice, or a fiddle, or a whistle, from the
Continent, were led away to him, and adjudicated
on. His head lay so much on one side with
this listening, that the attitude became habitual
and normal; and on occasions of extraordinary
attention he listened with his head erect. Yet
he was a florid, round, selfish, and practically
useless nobleman. With all his audiences, his
whispering in corners, his taking of buttons and
button-holes, his shrugs, his showering of criticism
and musical terms as from a dredger, he
never did any good for any new or wandering
artist. And when one had, with infinite
struggling, rowed into public favour, the musical
lord came paddling at the stern with a little oar
no bigger than a fan, and really enjoyed the
credit of having contributed largely to the
success.

In the large mansion in Dover-street, the
musical Lord Putnenham gave entertainments,
which were known mysteriously as "rich musical
treats." These were a sort of dry Trappist
matinées, and evening "reunions," where the
board was spread with music, and music only;
and the tables groaned with quaver entrées, and
light crotchet hors d'œuvres, and a sparkling
presto, served as champagne. Lord Putnenham
always bewailed the decay of classical music,
and did his best to restore it; and if a sort of
"service," that lasted hours, the close to which
was marked by the flutter of the turning of the
twentieth page; and if faces of agony, and
jaws hanging wearily, and mournful rustling on
chairs, and acute pains about the spine, and
welcome drowsiness (with some), and strange
cerebral confusion (with others), and something
like incipient idiocy (with one or two); if this
was restoring classical music, Lord Putnenham
did so effectually on every one of his "second
Thursdays."

Strange to say, people came eagerly, nay,
struggled to come. People of fashion, and
people of quality, and people with daughters—
like Lady Laura Fermor. Wise and wary woman!
She saw that the soil was soft enough for riflepits.
She saw that, from the hopeless and
dispiriting character of the place, the warriors
and chiefs would be driven in perforce upon
what entertainment she could offer; and that in
the arid desert character of the country, her