turning away. "We will have our confidential
talk another time." However nettled she
might have been by Thomas's apparent neglect,
she took care (for good reasons of her own,
doubtless) not to show it then or there, and
was studiously civil to him. "Messeigneurs,"
she continued, " can I offer you anything? The
wines of South Lambeth are, I am afraid, not of
the premiers crûs—the first vintages; but, if
you desired it, the neighbourhood should be
scoured to procure beverages worthy of you.
Will you smoke, Messeigneurs? Illumine your
cigars, by all means. I will not do you the
injustice to suppose that I could offer you any
so good as those which are in your cases."

The gentlemen hastened to disclaim any wish
to resort to the deleterious practice she expressed
herself willing to tolerate, and assured
her that her conversation was already sufficiently
delightful without any extraneous aids. By-
and-by, Sir William Long gently suggested
that she had made them, overnight, a certain
promise.

"Ah," she returned, with seeming carelessness,
"I know—my little girl. I promised to
introduce her to you, did I not? It was a
venturesome pledge on my part. Vous êtes
par trop mauvais sujets, mes nobles seigneurs.
However, you shall see that I can keep my
word. Do you really wish to see the child?
She is but a little bit of a thing, and quite timid
and awkward."

"If she is half as charming as her mamma,"
Lord Carlton observed, gallantly, "she must
be charming indeed."

"Flatterer! How do you know that I am
her mamma? Ai-je l'air d'une mère, moi?"
The vain woman plumed herself as she spoke.
She was really beginning to imagine that she
was young again. "But you shall see her.
Excuse me for a few moments, and I will
present her to you. You are sure that I cannot
offer you anything?"

"Don't think you can," put in plain-speaking
Mr. M'Variety. "'Tisn't very likely these
gents could drink the kind of stuff you would be
likely to get from the public-house at the corner.
If I'd only thought of it, now, I'd have brought
a bottle of champagne in his lordship's carriage."

"With his lordship's permission," Mr.
Tuttleshell gently hinted, in an under tone.

"With nobody's permission but my own, Mr.
Tom Toady," the manager, who was quick of
speech sometimes, retorted.

Thomas looked discomposed, and his lordship
laughed. Mr. M'Variety's bluntness rather
amused than offended him. It could certainly
never be alleged against the enterprising
manager that he was an adulator of the great. He
was fond of the society of the "tiptoppers," as
he called them, made much of them, and treated
them with great liberality and hospitality; but
he never cringed to or bowed clown before
them. He had often been known to swear at a
lord who got in a carpenter's way behind the
scenes; but it was difficult to be offended with
him: he swore so very good humouredly and
respectfully. He was quite as affable and quite
as hospitable in the society of the gentleman
who contracted for the train oil to supply the
lamps of Ranelagh, the inspector of police, and
the tradesman who manufactured pork-pies for
the refreshment-room.

Madame Ernestine went away into the next
room; and poor Thomas had rather a hard time
of it until her return. That unlucky observation
about his lordship's permission brought on
his head a number of cutting things. Mr. Greyfaunt
was secretly delighted that the harmless
client had been put down. Mr. M'Variety
hastened, however, to smoothe Thomas's ruffled
pinions.

"A right good fellow is Tom," he observed;
"only he will put in his oar sometimes where it
isn't wanted. Never mind, Tom; if I've hurt
your feelings, I'm sorry for it."

It was difficult for Mr. Tuttleshell to be angry
with any human being for more than five
seconds at a time; and he was assuring
M'Variety of his entire belief that he would do
nothing willingly to wound his feelings, when
the countess entered the parlour.

She brought Lily with her. She had some
womanly grace and ingenuity left, this Wild
Woman, and, during the few minutes she had
been absent, had disposed some ribbons and
scraps of lace about the girl's dress, which made
her look quite smart. She was very pale, poor
little Lily; but her soft brown hair and trusting
eyes were beautiful.

"Merciful Heaven!" cried the baronet, starting
up. "She's not a bit changed. It's only
the dear little girl we saw at Greenwich grown
into a woman."

But Lily had grown paler and paler. Flashes
of crimson came, transient, across the deadly
whiteness of her cheek. But she trembled all
over, and stretched forth her hands before her as
though her sight were failing her, and she was
feeling her way. At length she gave a feeble
cry, staggered, and would have fallen, but that
the countess caught her in her arms.

"I thought so," she muttered between her
teeth.

She bore her into the bedroom, poured water
on a handkerchief, damped her forehead and
chafed her hands. The girl soon revived. The
countess bade her lie on the bed and keep quiet,
and she would soon be quite well again. "Sly
little imp," she muttered again, as she passed
the sitting-room. "Ah, I thought so, I thought
so. Thou couldst not deceive me, little Jesuit."

She found her visitors in great perturbation at
the untoward occurrence.

"It is nothing," she explained. "I told you.
She is a mere child, and has hitherto lived in
virtuous retirement." She said this with a grin.
"She was alarmed at the sight of so many
strangers, but she is already recovered, and will
soon he herself again. I was just as timid at
her age." And she grinned again. She was not
pleasant to look upon when she grinned. She
strove to engage her guests in conversation;