He had just gone to see for the heavy old-
fashioned chariot, and was coming back with
news of it (he had stopped outside the door to
have speech with some friend), when he heard
those Welsh names which had contorted his face
so terribly. For a moment he had forgotten the
old swinging chariot, and the lady who swung in
it; but the smooth look had come back to his
face again, and he was presently carefully and
kindly guiding Mrs. Wrigley down stairs. At
the chariot door she said—there was a
coquettishness in this interview at the chariot door—
"You will come to-morrow, Major Carter, at the
usual hour. We shall expect you. I shall be
not at home for 'those men.' " (Alas! for poor
Hoblush and Punsher Hill!)

But the major's face was overcast. He
answered in trouble: "I am so sorry, so grieved;
but pressing business calls me away to the
country to-morrow."

Anxious lines came upon his face as he spoke,
and he looked round restlessly and absently.
Mrs. Wrigley, languished, said he must be sure
and not stay away long; and coquettishly pulled
the glass of the old chariot between her and the
major, as she thought she had already risked
scandal.

Major Carter walked away to Hans-place.
He found his son up—a quiet unquestioning and
dutiful youth, of whom he often complained that
he had to find brains for him, and thought, and
a sort of earthly providence. He accepted his
father in every situation without so much as
a doubt, which was an advantage. He was a
handsome youth, too.

The impatience and contortion that was on the
major's face in the room of the fashionably
smooth smirk he had taken out with him, struck
young Carter; but he asked no questions.

"Where's that old Bradshaw," said the major,
roughly, "that was knocking about here? Now,
when it is wanted, it can't be got."

The son found it, and brought it. As the
father's face was bent over the lamp to read,
the light played upon worn furrows and gullies,
and strange twists of sour impatience.

"It will do," he said, "for a wonder. Where's
that hand-bag?"

He began to thrust a few things into it, talking
as he did. "I have to go away for a couple
of days. Don't mention to any one that I am out
of the house. Now mind! Not a word! Good
God how I am persecuted! I shall just catch a
heavy train. Good-by."

Major Carter hurried out of the house, carrying
his hand-bag, and shut the door softly behind
him. He got into a cab. He passed Lord
Putnenham's house, where the lights were still
in the windows, where the link-boys were still
shouting hoarsely, and where the hall-door, opening
now and again, showed a patch of brilliancy.
By that time Mrs. Wrigley was at her dressing-
glass, being unscrewed and ungirthed, and
approaching more nearly the normal figure of
general Seal-dom. Softly amorous of her admirer,
she was receiving the hired homage of her
maid.

At Euston-square, Major Carter asked for a
ticket for Bangor, and got ready for a dreary and
miserable night.

CHAPTER XV. MISS MANUEL'S "LITTLE SUPPER."

Harding Hanaper, M.P., her Majesty's Under-
Secretary for Foreign Affairs, Westley Kerr,
Doctor Jay, F.R.S., and Mrs. Jay, Colonel
Langton, C.B., Gr. Gds., and Webster—someway
always spoken of without the homage of
"Mr.," or the familiarity of a Christian name,
a dry saturnine satirist, rather inclined to be
silent—these formed the fringe of Miss Manuel's
little supper-table. The company were in spirits,
and came inclined to be gay. The fire was
blazing, the table was lighted with pink wax
in white china candlesticks. Everything was
delicate and inviting.

Webster settled his napkin about his loins with
anticipatory satisfaction. "I think Putnenham
gives the best parties in London," he said.
"There are none I like so well."

Harding Hanaper, fair and simpering, and
considered to be a young official of great promise,
knew there was something masked under this
speech. "Come," he said, "explain."

"They fit the mind for enjoyment," said
Webster, appraising the dishes. "It is like being
in jail for a year, or being on a regimen, and then
eating what you like, or on a desert island, or in
a spiritual retreat, or—He takes good care to
leave no knives and forks in the way. What a
narrow soul the man has!"

This was like the curée at Fontainebleau. The
huntsman had given the signal, and the hounds
all fell, full cry, upon the Putnenham stag.

"The prostration that comes on me in that
place," said Harding Hanaper, bathing his hand
in his long hair, "the languor, the loathing of
life— "

"And of office!" said Webster.

"And his fiddlers! Where does he get those
horrible beings? If, indeed, it was anticipating
a place of final punisliment—or it was a pantomime
and demons were wanted—"

Miss Manuel's supper consisted of delicate
game and other dainties. Champagne lay cooling
in the centre, like an Indian belle on an
ottoman enjoying the punkah.

Now Fermor entered with a sort of shyness,
for he found a ring of faces that were strange to
him. But Miss Manuel sheltered him promptly.

"Here is a place next to me, Captain Fermor.
Mr. Hanaper, become acquainted with Captain
Fermor, and help him!" Then, in a low voice,
"I see you are not too proud; and you might
have humiliated me. So, I am grateful."

"I saw you at Lord Putnenham's," said Harding
Hanaper, graciously, and again dipping his
hand in his hair.

"Escape of another convict from Portland,"
said Webster, suddenly. "So I see by the evening
papers. Let us drink him." And he bowed