"We had an awful gale of wind in crossing to Calais,--the passage took eight hours."

"You relished land travelling all the more for it afterwards."

"Not so, my Lady; for at Lyons the whole country was flooded, and we were obliged to march eleven miles afoot on a railway embankment, and under a tremendous storm of rain; but even that was not the worst, for in crossing the St. Bernard--"

"I really don't care for such moving accidents; I always skip them in the newspapers. What of my mourning,--is much crape worn?"

"A great deal of crape, my Lady, and in 'bouffes' down the dress."

"With bugles or without? I see by your hesitation, sir, you have forgotten about the bugles."

"No, my Lady, I have them," said he, proudly; "small acorns of Jet are also worn on points of the flounces, and Madame Frontin suggested that, as your Ladyship dislikes black so much--"

"But who said as much, sir?" broke she in, angrily.

"And the caviare, Mr. Spicer,--have you remembered the caviare?" lisped out Lady Grace.

"Yes, my Lady; but Fortnum's people are afraid some of it may prove a failure. There was something, I don't know what, happened to the fish in the Baltic this year."

"Who ventured to say black was unbecoming to me?" asked Lady Lackington, changing her question, and speaking more angrily.

"It was Frontin, my Lady, who remarked that you once had said nothing would ever induce you to wear that odious helmet widows sometimes put on."

"Oh dear; and I have such a fancy for it," exclaimed Lady Grace.

"You mistake, my dear; you are confounding the occasion with the costume," said Lady Lackington; and her eyes sparkled with the malice of her remark.

Mr. Spicer's face exhibited as much enjoyment of the wit as he deemed decorous to the party satirized.

"And now, sir, for the important part of your mission r have you obtained any information about my brother-in-law?"

"Yes, my Lady, I saw him at Chiavenna. He drove up to the post-house to change horses as we were there; he told me, in the few minutes we spoke together, that they were on their way to Rome."

"Whom do you mean, sir, when you say 'they'?"

"Lord and Lady Lackington, my Lady."

"Is he married? Did you say he was married, sir?'" exclaimed she, in a voice discordant above all her efforts to restrain.

"Yes, my Lady; I was, in a manner, presented to her Ladyship, who was, I must say, a very beautiful person--"

"I want no raptures, sir; are you quite certain she was his wife?"

"His Lordship told me so, my Lady; and when they reached the Hotel Royal, at Milan, I took occasion to question the courier! whom I knew before, and he told me all about it."

"Go on, sir."

"Well, my Lady, they were just married about ten or twelve days when I met them; the ceremony had been performed in some little out-of-the-way spot in the Rhine country, where Mr. Beecher had been staying for the summer, and where, as it happened, he never received any tidings of the late Lord's death, or the presumption is, he had never made this unfortunate connection."

"What do you mean by 'unfortunate connection '?"

"Why, one must really call it so, my Lady; the world, at least, will say as much."

"Who is she, sir?"

"She's the daughter of one of the most notorious men in England, my Lady,--the celebrated leg, Grog Davis."

Ah, Mr. Spicer, small and insignificant as you are, you have your sting, and her Ladyship has felt it. These words, slowly uttered in a tone of assumed sorrow, so overcame her they were addressed to, that she covered her face with her handkerchief and sat thus, speechless, for several minutes. To Spicer it was a moment of triumph,--it was a vengeance for all the insults, all the slights she showered upon him, and he only grieved to think how soon her proud spirit would rally from the shock.

Lady Lackington's face, as she withdrew her handkerchief, was of ashy paleness, and her bloodless lips trembled with emotion. "Have you heard what this man has said, Grace?" whispered she, in a voice so distinct as to be audible throughout the room.

"Yes, dearest; it is most distressing," said the other, in the softest of accents.

"Distressing! It is an infamy!" cried she. Then suddenly turning to Spicer, with flaring eyes and flushed face, she said, "You have rather a talent for blundering, sir, and it is just as likely this is but a specimen of your powers. I am certain she is not his wife."

"I can only say, my Lady, that I took pains enough to get the story accurately; and as Kuffner, the courier, was at the marriage--"

"Marriage!" broke she in, with a sarcastic irony; "why, sir, it is not thus a peer of England selects the person who is to share his dignity."

"But you forget, my Lady," interposed Spicer, "that he did n't know he was a peer--he had not the slightest expectation of being one--at the time. Old Grog knew it--"

"Have a care, sir, and do not _you_ forget yourself. These familiar epithets are for your associates in the ring, and not for _my_ ears."

"Well, the Captain, my Lady,--he is as well known by that name as the other,--he had all the information, and kept back the letters, and managed the whole business so cleverly that the first Mr. Beeeher ever knew of his. Lordship's death was when hearing it from Mr. Twining at Baden."

"I thought Mr. Twining was in Algiers, or Australia, I forget which,"

said Lady Grace, gently.

"Such a marriage must be a mockery,--a mere mockery. He shall break it,--he must break it!" said Lady Lacking-ton, as she walked up and down with the long strides and the step of a tigress in a cage.

"Oh dear! they are so difficult to break!" sighed Lady-Grace. "Mr.

Twining always promised me a divorce when the law came in and made it so cheap, and now he says that it's all a mistake, and until another Bill, or an Act, or something or other, is passed, that it's a luxury far above persons of moderate fortune."

"Break it he shall," muttered Lady Lackington, as she continued her march.

"Of course, dearest, expense doesn't signify to _you_," sighed out Lady Grace.

"And do you mean to tell me, sir," said Lady Lacking-ton, "that this is the notorious Captain Davis of whose doings we have been reading in every newspaper?"

"Yes, my Lady, he is the notorious"--he was going to say "Grog," but corrected himself, and added--"Captain Davis, and has been for years back the intimate associate of the present Lord Lackington."

Mr. Spicer was really enjoying himself on this occasion, nor was it often his fortune to give her Ladyship so much annoyance innocuously.

His self-indulgence, however, carried him too far; for Lady Lackington, suddenly turning round, caught the expression of gratified malice on his face.

"Take care, sir,--take care," she cried, with a menacing gesture of her finger. "There may chance to be a flaw somewhere in your narrative; and if there should, Mr. Spicer,--if there should,--I don't _think_ Lord Lackington would forget it,--I am _sure I_ sha'n't." And with this threatening declaration her Ladyship swept out of the room in most haughty fashion.

"This is all what comes of being obliging," exclaimed Spicer, unable to control himself any longer. "It was not _I_ that threw Beecher into Grog's company,--it was not _I_ that made him marry Grog's daughter. For all that _I_ cared, he might go and be a monk at La Trappe, or marry as many wives as Brigham Young himself."

"I hope you brought me Lady Gertrude Oscot's book, Mr. Spicer,--'Rays through Oriel Windows'?" said Lady Grace, in one of her sweetest voices.