“Ah, Mrs. Liddell, you ought not to have allowed yourself to be outmanoeuvred,” cried the Colonel, who greatly enjoyed irritating his pretty little friend.  “Your belle-soeur (as she really is) is too many for you.  Don’t you give up; try again when the adorable Katherine is out of the way.”

“I fully intend to do so, I assure you,” cried Mrs. Frederic, her eyes sparkling, her heart beating with vexation, but determined to keep up the illusion of ingratiating herself with the miserly uncle.  “Pray remember this is only a first attempt.”

“I am sure you have my devout wishes for your success.  How this wretched old hunk can resist such eyes, such a smile, as yours, is beyond my comprehension.  If such a niece attacked me, I should surrender at the first demand.”

“I don’t think you would”—­a little tartly.  “I think you have as keen a regard for your own interest as most men.”

“I am sure you would despise me if I had not, and the idea of being despised by you is intolerable.”

“You know I do not”—­very softly.  “But it is time I turned and went toward home.”

“Nonsense, my dear Mrs. Liddell! or, if you will turn, let it be round Kensington Gardens.  Do you know, I am going to Scotland next week, to Sir Ralph’s moor; then I expect a party to meet Errington at my own place early in September; so I shall not have many chances of seeing you until I run up just before Christmas.  Now I am going to ask a great favor.  It’s so hard to get a word with you except under the Argus eyes of that mother-in-law of yours.”

“What can it be?” opening her eyes.

“Come with me to see this play they have been giving at the Adelphi.  I have never had a spare evening to see it.  We’ll leave early, and have a snug little supper at Verey’s, and I’ll see you home.”

“It would be delightful, but out of the question, I am afraid:  Mrs. Liddell has such severe ideas, and I dare not offend her.”

“Why need she know anything about it?  Say—­oh, anything—­that you are going with the Burnetts:  they have gone to the Italian lakes, but I don’t suppose she knows.”

The temptation was great, but the little widow was no fool in some ways.  She saw her way to make something of an impression on her worldly admirer.

“No, Colonel Ormonde,” she said, shaking her head, while she permitted the “suspicious moisture” to gather in her eyes.  “It would indeed be a treat to a poor little recluse like me, but though there is not a bit of harm in it, or you would not ask me, I am sure, I must not offend my mother-in-law; and though Heaven knows I am not straight-laced, I never will tell stories or act deceitfully if I can help it; that is my only strong point, which has to make up for a thousand weak ones.”

Colonel Ormonde looked at her with amazement; her greatest charm to men such as he was her dolliness, and this was a new departure.