“What does this mean, Mr. Bellingham?” she asked, smiling, but scrutinising his face closely.

“My dear Countess,” cried the old gentleman, delighted beyond measure at the result of his policy, and corruscating with smiles and twinkles, “my dear Countess, allow me to congratulate you.”

“But who is the ‘personal friend’ mentioned?  Is it the Duke?  He is in the far West at this moment.”

“No,” answered Mr. Bellingham, “it is not the Duke.  I am inclined to think it is a manifestation of some great cosmic force, working silently for your welfare.  The lovely spirits,” continued the old gentleman, looking up from under his brows, and gesticulating as though he would call down the mystic presence he invoked—­“the lovely spirits that guard you would be loth to allow anything so fair to suffer annoyance from the rude world.  You are well taken care of, Countess, believe me.”

Margaret smiled at Uncle Horace’s way of getting out of the difficulty, for she suspected him of knowing more than he would acknowledge.  But all she could extract from him was that he knew Lord Fitzdoggin slightly, and that he believed the telegram to be perfectly genuine.  He had played his part in the matter, and rubbed his hands as though washing them of any further responsibility.  Indeed he had nothing to tell, save that he had advised Claudius to get an introduction from the Duke.  He well knew that the letters he had given Claudius had been the real means of his success; but as Margaret only asked about the telegram, he was perfectly safe in denying any knowledge of it.  Not that such a consideration would have prevented his meeting her question with a little fib, just to keep the secret.

“Will you not go to this dance with me this evening?” asked Margaret after dinner, as they sat round the fireplace.

“What ball is that?” inquired Mr. Bellingham.

“I hardly know what it is.  It is a party at the Van Sueindell’s and there is ‘dancing’ on the card.  Please go with me; I should have to go alone.”

“I detest the pomp and circumstance of pleasure,” said Uncle Horace, “the Persian appurtenances, as my favourite poet calls them; but I cannot resist so charming an invitation.  It will give me the greatest pleasure.  I will send word to put off another engagement.”

“Do you really not mind at all?”

“Not a bit of it.  Only three or four old fogies at the club. Est mihi nonum superantis annum plenus Albani cadus,” continued Mr. Bellingham, who never quoted Horace once without quoting him again in the next five minutes.  “I had sent a couple of bottles of my grandfather’s madeira to the club, 1796, but those old boys will enjoy it without me.  They would talk me to death if I went.”

“It is too bad,” said Margaret, “you must go to the club.  I would not let you break an engagement on my account.”