“Judge Craven’s wife and Major Boyd are amongst the converts; and the Rev. Allan Baily,” said the lady, with a wink at Helen.

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed the dowager; “Mr. Baily!  It must be a lie—­I declare it must!”

“Will you have my sal-volatile, madam?” said the malicious lady, enjoying the scene, while she offered her vinaigrette.

“I won’t believe it.  Who told you, Mrs. Grayson?”

“Himself,” replied Mrs. Grayson, calmly.

“He’s crazy!  He’s been flighty these two years, with his long coats, and fast-days, and confession,” cried the dowager, fanning herself violently, and snuffing the sal-volatile, until she grew purple in the face.  “As to the others, they are doting.  I’ll go this moment, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Jerrold, and make my coachman drive me there; and if he has done so, I’ll rouse him, as sure as I have a tongue in my head.  I knew him when he was a boy, and I protest against it,” she said, screaming like an angry macaw, as she fluttered out.

“The town’s crazy about Mr. Baily’s conversion.  I am not surprised at Mrs. Fanshaw’s excitement.  But let us make up a party, and go tonight, Mrs. Jerrold.  The gentleman who conducts this thing, and pulls the wires, is a man of irresistible eloquence.  He was one of us a few years ago.”

“It would be dangerous to venture, I should think,” said Helen, with a dim smile; “but if Mr. Jerrold has no other engagement—­”

“Is it of the famous ‘Mission’ you are speaking, Helen?” interrupted her mother-in-law, rustling in silk and jewels, “Yes; of course we must go.  We shall be quite out of the fashion, if we do not.  The most distingue persons in town are to be there this evening.”

“I fear the opera and assembly will have but a slim attendance,” said Walter Jerrold in his pleasant, sarcastic way.

“Oh, we shall get away in time for the assembly, which, by the by, is the last of the season,” replied Mrs. Jerrold.  “Helen, you look charmingly this morning.  I declare you are the happiest couple I know of in the world.”

Cards, scandal, chocolate, and ices, filled up the routine of the Matinee; then the guests rolled away in their carriages to dress for dinner, or leave cards at the doors of people, who they knew were out.  It is the way of the world.

“I should prefer not to go, Walter,” said Helen that evening at tea.

“Nonsense.  I have better faith in you, Helen, than to think one evening will put you in peril.  Come, don’t be a coward.  I wish you to hear this eloquent, half-crazy enthusiast preach; then we can drop into the opera, or assembly, whichever you wish.”

“In my hat and white pegnoir—­how ridiculous, said Helen, with a faint smile.

“No; come back and dress, if you choose.  It will look ill for us to stay away when the others expect us and to be frank with you, Helle, I want to convince the world that my wife is not a Romanist.”