"Oh, it's a cheap article, madam. Fifteen
guineas."

"I don't know guineas. Fifteen pounds
fifteen for a toy that would come to pieces
in a couple of months near a fire! Nonsense!
What is this?'' asked Miss Bousfield, nearly
overturning a work-table with her umbrella.

"Twenty guineas. I mean twenty-one
pounds," replied Deal, examining the ticket.

"Where do you all expect, to go to?"
exclaimed Miss Bousfield, with sudden energy.
"I'd see every stick of furniture in London
burning before I would give way to such extortion.
Let me out of this." And she made a
sudden rush to the door.

"Stop, madam," cried Deal. " Stop, I entreat.
We must find something for the adorable—- I mean
the most interesting—- object you have in view."

"If you please, sir," said the old clerk,
coming out of his desk at this critical moment,
"there is a davenport upstairs, returned by Sir
Frederic Samperton after he had had it a week
or two, as not solid enough. We might put it
at eight guineas.'*

"Be seated for a moment, madam," entreated
Deal. "Here it is," he said, "at your own
price."

Miss Bousfield frowned upon the article
severely. Her scrutiny was satisfactory. " You
know my price; six, ten."

"Then six, ten be it, madam," returned Deal,
bowing, and washing his hands in the air.

"Now call a cab, and I will take it away
with me," said the customer, counting the
money out of her massively-steeled bag.

CHAPTER III.

MRS. CHUTTNEY and Mary Holden had
returned from their morning walk, and, having
thrown off their bonnets, sat down quietly in
the drawing-room to await the colonel's return to
luncheon. They had greatly enjoyed the morning's
companionship. Mrs. Chutney, timid and
confused when flurried by the colonel, always
felt support and encouragement from her cousin's
fearless spirit and her ready sympathising affection.
She held a complicated whity-brown web
to which she occasionally added a few stitches
with the crochet-needle, while Miss Holden
appeared to be reading the Times.

"These have been very happy hours, dear,"
said Mrs. Chutney, laying down her work, and
resting her arm on the table beside her. " I
wish you could come oftener."

"You see the day is hardly long enough for
all I have to get through," replied Mary. " You
know that, like yourself, I have no money; but,
unlike you, I have not a rich husband. I
suppose you would cut me if I followed my own
inclinations?"

"How, dear?" asked Mrs. Chutney.

'' Well, I do not fancy the legitimate line for
distressed gentlewomen the meek, ill-treated
governess, with some hard-hearted matron for a
task-mistress, half a dozen unruly pupils, and a
scampish young nobleman making love in the
background. Though I should rather like that
part of it."

"Mary, Mary! how wildly you talk!" said
her gentle cousin.

"No," continued Miss Holden, "I would
prefer trying on cloaks at Marshall and
Snelgrove's; or, Loo dear, selling tarts at a pastry-
cook's in a garrison town. That would be
jolly!"

Mary was the orphan daughter of a captain
in a marching regiment, which may account for
some of her eccentric tastes.

"Ah! Mary—- a good husband, and a
comfortable home!"

"But show me them! You have both, yet
there was a brighter smile in your eyes, and a
happier repose on your lips, in the old days when
we turned our frocks, sponged our silks, washed
our ribbons, darned our stockings, and mended
our gloves together."

"Don't talk of it," exclaimed Mrs. Chutney.
"I seem somehow to have lost my courage. I
cannot please my husband—- and then, you know,
I had no fortune—- at least nothing to speak of.
I am the creature of his bounty. And I am
always afraid of his finding out my mistakes;
for I have grown, oh! so stupid."

"My dear," cried Mary, " you are a goose.
No money! Hadn't he plenty? Did you not
give him yourself—- your tender true heart. I
know you love him. Don't you care for his
comforts with a watchfulness no money could
purchase or reward? Money is all very necessary,
but there are things to which money is
dross. I say, Loo, do not be so down-hearted.
Just show the colonel your value; contradict
his whims, disregard his storms in a teacup;
don't give him a kiss when he asks for one."

"But he never does ask for one," said Mrs.
Chutney, dejectedly.

"Gracious!" exclaimed Miss Holden, with
strong emphasis, " I really thought better of
him! But hush! I hear a ring. It may be the
colonel. There, I have pulled the tablecloth
crooked, and mind you stand up to him like a
woman—- nothing secures peace like an armed
neutrality."

"Well, I'll try," returned her cousin, as
Colonel Chutney entered.

"Phew!" he exclaimed, " it's terribly hot.
Loo, I want some brandy and soda-water, iced,
mind—- iced."

Mrs. Chutney rang the bell and gave directions
to the page, while the colonel continued
addressing Mary: " I see you have been out; too
lazy, I suppose, to go up-stairs" (pointing to
their bonnets, which lay upon a sofa); " I must
say" (with an irritable laugh), " I do not approve
of amalgamations—- drawing-rooms and dressing-
rooms are better kept apart."

"Well, I do not agree with you," said Mary,
carelessly; " by mingling two good things you
increase the sum total of excellence."

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the colonel;
"Loo, look at that table-cover!"

"Form square, repel cavalry," said Mary, in
an emphatic whisper to her cousin.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Chutney,
quietly.

"It is crooked—- it is infernally crooked. If