Mrs. Buzza mopped her eyes and nodded again.

"What has he done now?"

"S-said his bu-bu-breakfast was cold this mo-horning, and p-pitched the bu-bu-breakfast set over the quay-door," she moaned. "Oh! w-what shall I do?"

"Leave him!"

Mrs. Buzza clasped her hands and stared.

"You could see the m-marks quite plain," she wailed.

"What! Did he strike you?"

"I mean, on the bo-bottom of the c-cups. They were real W-worcester."

"Leave him! Oh! I have no patience," and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys stamped her little foot, "with you women of Troy. Will you always be dolls-- dolls with a painted smile for all man's insane caprices? Will you never--?"

"I don't paint," put in Mrs. Buzza feebly.

"Revolt, I say! Leave him this very night! Oh! if I could--"

"If you please 'm," interrupted the page, throwing open the door, "here's Mrs. Simpson, an' says she must see you partic'lar."

Mrs. Buzza had barely time to dry her eyes and set her bonnet straight, before Mrs. Simpson rushed into the room. The new comer's face was crimson, and her eyes sparkled.

"Oh! Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, I must--"

At this point she became aware of Mrs. Buzza, stopped abruptly, sank into a chair, and began aimlessly to discuss the weather.

This was awkward; but the situation became still further strained when Mrs. Pellow was announced, and bursting in with the same eagerness, came to a dead halt with the same inconsequence.

Mrs. Saunders followed with white face and set teeth, and Mrs.

Ellicome-Payne in haste and tears.

"Pray come in," said their hostess blandly; "this is quite like a mothers' meeting."

The reader has no doubt guessed aright. Though n.o.body present ever afterwards breathed a word as to their reasons for calling thus at "The Bower," and though the weather (which was serene and settled) alone supplied conversation during their visit, the truth is that the domestic relations of all these ladies had coincidently reached a climax. It seems incredible; but by no other hypothesis can I explain the facts. If the reader can supply a better, he is entreated to do so.

At length, finding the constraint past all bearing, Mrs. Buzza rose to go.

"You will do it?" whispered her hostess as they shook hands.

She could not trust herself to answer, but nodded and hastily left the room. At the front door she almost ran against a thin, mild-faced gentleman. He drew aside with a bow, and avoided the collision; but she did not notice him.

"I will do it," she kept repeating to herself, "in spite of the poor girls."

A mist swept before her eyes as she pa.s.sed down the road.

She staggered a little, with a vague feeling that the world was ending somehow; but she repeated--

"I will do it. I have been a good wife to him; but it's all over now--it's all over to-night."

The mild-faced gentleman into whom Mrs. Buzza had so nearly run in her agitation was Mr. Fogo. A certain air of juvenility sat upon him, due to a new pair of gloves and the careful polish which Caleb had coaxed upon his hat and boots. His clothes were brushed, his carriage was more erect; and the page, who opened the door, must, after a scrutiny, have p.r.o.nounced him presentable, for he was admitted at once.

Undoubtedly the page blundered; but the events of the past hour had completely muddled the poor boy's wits, and perhaps the sight of one of his own s.e.x was grateful, coming as it did after so many agitated females. At any rate, Mr. Fogo and his card entered the Goodwyn-Sandys' drawing-room together.

I leave you to imagine his feelings. In one wild instant the scene exploded on his senses. He staggered back against the door, securely pinning the retreating page between it and the doorpost, and denuding the Goodwyn-Sandys' livery of half a dozen b.u.t.tons. The four distracted visitors started up as if to escape by the window.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys advanced.

She was white to the lips. A close observer might have read the hunted look that for one brief moment swept over her face. But when she spoke her words were cold and calm.

"You wish to see my husband, Mr.--?" She hesitated over the name.

"Not in the least," stammered Mr. Fogo.

There was an awful silence, during which he stared blankly around on the ladies.

"Then may I ask--?"

"I desired to see Gerald--I mean, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys--but--"

"I am Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. Would you mind stating your business?"

Mr. Fogo started, dropped his hat, and leant back against the door again.

"_You!_"

"Certainly." Her mouth worked slightly, but her eyes were steady.

"You are she that--was--once--Geraldine--O'Halloran?"

"Certainly."

"Excuse me, madam," said Mr. Fogo, picking up his hat and addressing Mrs. Simpson politely, "but the mole on your chin annoys me."

"Sir!"

"Annoys me excessively. May I ask, was it a birth-mark?"

"He is mad!" screamed the ladies, starting up and wringing their hands. "Oh, help! help!"

Mr. Fogo looked from one to another, and pa.s.sed his hand wearily over his eyes.

"You are right," he murmured; "I fancy--do you know--that I must be-- slightly--mad. Pray excuse me. Would one of you mind seeing me home?" he asked with a plaintive smile.

His eyes wandered to Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, who stood with one hand resting on the table, while the other pointed to the door.

"Help! help!" screamed the ladies.

Without another word he opened the door and tottered out into the pa.s.sage. At the foot of the stairs he met the Honourable Frederic, who had been attracted by the screams.