the neighbourhood of St. James's, where, even
after supper hours, guests who wished to talk,
and smoke, and drink champagne, were welcome.

"It's very late—very late, indeed," was the
courteous remark of the countess to Thomas, as
she flung away her fan, and gave a great yawn;
"you had better go home."

"Much obliged to you," thus Thomas; "but
allow me at least to apologise for keeping this
pretty young lady, whom I presume to be your
daughter, up to such a very unseemly hour.
You see, miss, that your mamma—— "

"My servant needs none of your apologies,"
the countess interrupted, with her old haughtiness.
"If she complained of waiting up early
or late, just as it suited my good will and
pleasure, I'd break every bone in her skin."

"It would be a pity to hurt such pretty
bones."

"Never mind whether they are ugly or pretty.
They are none of yours. They are mine. Now,
go away, there's a good man. I am tired to
death."

"Allow me at least to light a cigar. It's
deuced cold."

"I do not allow smoking in my apartments."

"By Jove, Ernestine," cried the usually
placable Tom, losing all patience under these
continual rebuffs, "you're very different now
from what you were when I took you off the
boards in France. Why, but for the few Louis
that Italian fellow won at the trente et quarante,
you wouldn't have had a shoe to your foot."

"I have nothing to do with what I was yesterday.
It is enough for me to think of what I
am to-day, and what I may be to-morrow."
Spoken like a brave and consistent countess.

"At least," remonstrated Tom, "you might
remember that I got you a good engagement,
and, as an old friend, am at least entitled to a
little consideration."

"A fig for your engagements," the woman
cried, snapping her fingers; "a fig for the
miserable ten pounds a week which your master,
M'Variety, gives me. Dix livres sterling. Je
me mouche avec ces gages-là!"

"You were glad enough to get them, when I
offered the engagement to you at Lyons, and
lent you the money to come over to England."

"I might have been. It is so very long ago.
In the century before last, I think. Chantez-
moi quelque chose de nouveau."

"It was this very summer," grumbled Tom.

"A fig for last summer! a fig for my old
friends. Je m'en fiche!" the woman cried.
"I have found other old friends—and superb
ones, too. I have been in the mud long
enough. Now I am about to revenge myself."

"Then I suppose you don't want to see me
any more. I wish you a very good-night."
Tom was going away in dudgeon.

On the contrary, the countess condescended
to explain, "I want to see you every day. You
can be very useful to me, l'oncle Thomas. Allons,
soyons amis, mon vieux. Tapez là."

She held out her hand in a scornful manner
to Mr. Tuttleshell, who took it, and bowed,
somewhat stiffly, for he was still but ill pleased,
and was going, when the countess started up
and placed herself between him and the door.

"No, we are not going to part like that,"
she cried, half sarcastically, and half caressingly.
"Pas de rancune, mon brave. You must
continue to serve me. I want you here to-morrow
morning. I want to talk to you before ces
messieurs arrivent. Is not to-morrow—to-day,
rather, I would say—Saturday? Have they not
promised to so call. Am I not to dine with
them, there being a relâche at the Gardens?
Allons, donnez-moi la patte."

She had still, though haggard, and ruddled, a
cajoling kind of way about her which was not
ineffective. Tom gave her his hand this time
in perfect amity, and, promising to be with her
again before noon, took his leave.

He had been slyly examining Lily while
parleying with the countess. "By Jove! what a
pretty little thing," quoth Thomas Tuttleshell,
Esquire, as he put Mr. Kafooze's brass-plate
between himself and the parlour. "What a
pity she should have such an old tigress for a
mother. Clever woman, though. Fiendishly
clever. In her day, superb. Sadly fallen off,
though. I suppose the little one is her
daughter. I wonder what Billy Long's game
is. He's sown his wild oats; yet they're a sly
lot, these swells: always up to something. He
said to-night's meeting was as good as a
thousand pounds to him. I wish he'd give me five
hundred on account. Heigho! C-a-b!" And
Tom Tuttleshell hailed a four-wheeler, and was
driven home to bed.

   CHAPTER XLVIII. DREAMLAND.

IT was a very long time since the girl had
dreamed. How could she dream, she had no
time. Her life had been wakeful, and hard, and
cruel. She had been bedded on no soft pillow,
dandled to sleep in no loving arms. Every one
around her had been awake, and watchful to
strike at her. Tranquil slumbers and bright
visions she had just tasted of, here and there,
and for a moment; but they had been rudely
broken, and intervals of long years rolled
between. Sometimes, as a quiet and not unhappy
little child, the plaything of the school at Stockwell,
she had dreamed, nestling in the soothing
shadow of the Misses Bunnycastles' skirts.
Then she had certainly dreamed for a whole
afternoon at the Greenwich dinner, and for a
whole day at Cutwig and Co.'s. A brief and
blissful dream had been her sojourn at Madame
de Kergolay's; but the waking up only seemed
the ruder and more dreadful. Since she had
groaned under the sway of the horrible woman,
who, in her paint and out of her paint, on the
boards and off the boards, was always wild, and
capricious, and intolerable, she had forgotten
what it was to dream, or rather she had been as
one walking in her sleep, mobile, eyes wide open
and unconscious. So she might have gone on,
to find herself, at last, a dull, stupified, apathetic
drudge, too crushed and listless to be
discontented. But this was not to be. A great change