"Well, in the first place," drawled he, showing displeasure at her tone, "get up and dress yourself. I'll tell you what I want afterwards."

"Dress myself! There's not much chance of that, with such rags as are left me!"

"Never mind the rags. We can't help it just now. Besides, love, you look well enough for anything."

Fan tossed her head, as if she cared little for the compliment.

"Arrange the rags, as you call 'em, best way you can for to-night.

To-morrow, it will be different. We shall take a stroll among the milliners and mantua-makers. Now, girl, go; do as I tell you!"

So encouraged, she rose from the couch, and turned towards the stairway that conducted to her sleeping apartment.

She commenced ascending.

"Put on your best looks, Fan!" said her husband, calling after her. "I expect a gentleman, who's a stranger to you; and I don't wish him to think I've married a slut. Make haste, and get down again. He may be in at any moment."

There was no response to show that the rude speech had given offence.

Only a laugh, sent back from the stair-landing.

Swinton resumed his cigar, and sat waiting.

He knew not which would be heard first--a ring at the gate-bell, or the rustling of silk upon the stairway.

He desired the latter, as he had not yet completed the promised instructions.

He had not much more to say, and a moment would suffice:

He was not disappointed: Fan came first. She came sweeping downstairs, snowy with Spanish chalk, and radiant with rouge.

Without these she was beautiful, with them superb.

Long usage had made them almost a necessity to her skin; but the same had taught her skill in their limning. Only a connoisseur could have distinguished the paint upon her cheeks from the real and natural colour.

"You'll do," said Swinton, as he scanned her with an approving glance.

"For, what, pray?" was the interrogatory.

It was superfluous. She more than conjectured his meaning.

"Sit down, and I'll tell you."

She sat down.

He did not proceed at once. He seemed under some embarrassment. Even he--the brute--was embarrassed!

And no wonder, with the vile intent in his thoughts--upon the tip of his tongue; for he intended _counselling her to shame_!

Not to the ultimate infamy, but to the seeming of it.

Only the seeming; and with the self-excuse of this limitation, he took courage, and spoke.

He spoke thus:

"Look here, Fan. The gentleman I'm expecting, is the same that has put us into this little snuggery. It's Lord --. I've told you what sort of a man he is, and what power he's got. He can do wonders for me, and will, if I can manage him. But he's fickle and full of conceit, as all of his kind. He requires skilful management; and you must assist me."

"I assist you! In what way?"

"I only want you to be _civil_ to him. You understand me?"

Fan made no reply; but her glance of assumed incredulity told of a perfect comprehension!

The ringing of the gate-bell interrupted the chapter of instructions.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

PATRON AND PROTEGE.

The ringing of the bell did not cause Mr Swinton to start. It might have done so had he been longer in his new residence. His paper "kites"

were still carried about London, with judgments pinned on to them; and he might have supposed that the bearer of one of them was bringing it home to him.

But the short time he had been installed in the McTavish villa, with the fact that a visitor was expected, rendered him comparatively fearless; and his composure was only disturbed by a doubt, as to whether the ringer of the bell was his patron, or only a deputy sent with the promised instructions.

The maid-of-all-work, that day hastily engaged, was despatched to answer the ring. If it was an elderly gentleman, tall and stoutish, she was to show him in at once, and without parley.

On opening the gate, a figure was distinguished outside. It was that of a gentleman. He was enveloped in an ample cloak, with a cap drawn over his ears. This did not prevent the servant from seeing that he was tall and stoutish; while the gleam of the hall-lamp, falling on his face, despite a dyed whisker, showed him to answer the other condition for admittance.

"Mr Swinton lives here?" he asked, before the gate-opener could give him invitation to enter.

"He does, sir. Please to walk in."

Guided by the girl, the cloaked personage threaded through the lilacs and laurestinas, stepped on to the little piazza, on which Mr McTavish had oft smoked his pipe; and was at length shown into the apartment where Swinton awaited him.

The latter was alone--his wife having retired by instructions.

On the entrance of his visitor, Mr Swinton started up from his seat, and advanced to receive him.

"My lord!" said he, shamming a profound surprise, "is it possible I am honoured by your presence?"

"No honour, sir; no honour whatever."

"From what your lordship said, I was expecting you to send--"

"I have come instead, Mr Swinton. The instructions I have to give are upon a matter of some importance. I think it better you should have them direct from 'myself.' For this reason I present myself, as you see, in _propria persona_."

"That's a lie!" thought Swinton, in reference to the reason.