But Constance, sitting a little more uprightly than her mother, who was supine upon the carriage cushions, had seen the two gentlemen as they stood talking.

“Mamma,” she said, “there’s Marmaduke and Sholto Douglas.”

“Where???” said the Countess, lifting her head quickly.  “Josephs, drive slowly.  Where are they, Constance?”

“They are going away.  I believe Marmaduke saw us.  There he is, passing the hospital.”

“We must go and speak to them.  Look pleasant, child; and dont make a fool of yourself.”

“Surely youll not speak to him, mamma!  You dont expect me——­”

“Nonsense.  I heard a great deal about him the other day.  He has moved from where he was living, and is quite reformed.  His father is very ill.  Do as I tell you.  Josephs, stop half way to the hotel.”

“I say,” said Marmaduke, finding himself out-manoeuvred:  “come back.  There they are right ahead, confound them.  What are they up to?”

“It cannot be helped,” said Douglas.  “There is no escape.  You must not cross:  it would be pointedly rude.”

Marmaduke went on grumbling.  When he attempted to pass, the Countess called his name, and greeted him with smiles.

“We want to know how your father is,” she said.  “We have had such alarming accounts of him.  I hope he is better.”

“They havnt told me much about him,” said Marmaduke.  “There was deuced little the matter with the governor when I saw him last.”

“Wicked prodigal!  What shall we do to reform him, Mr. Douglas?  He has not been to see us for three years past, and during that time we have had the worst reports of him.”

“You never asked me to go and see you.”

“Silly fellow!  Did you expect me to send you invitations and leave cards on you, who are one of ourselves?  Come to-morrow to dinner.  Your uncle the Bishop will be there; and you will see nearly all the family besides.  You cannot plead that you have not been invited now.  Will you come?”

“No.  I cant stand the Bishop.  Besides, I have taken to dining in the middle of the day.”

“Come after dinner, then?”

“Mamma,” said Constance, peevishly, “can’t you see that he does not want to come at all?  What is the use of persecuting him?”

“No, I assure you,” said Marmaduke.  “It’s only the Bishop I object to.  I’ll come after dinner, if I can.”

“And pray what is likely to prevent you?” said the Countess.

“Devilment of some sort, perhaps,” he replied.  “Since you have all given me a bad name, I dont see why I should make any secret of earning it.”

The Countess smiled slyly at him, implying that she was amused, but must not laugh at such a sentiment in Constance’s presence.  Then, turning so as to give the rest of the conversation an air of privacy, she whispered, “I must tell you that you no longer have a bad name.  It is said that your wild oats are all sown, and I will answer for it that even the Bishop will receive you with open arms.”