Lady Cicely continued:  “Now, this good lady, you must know, is not exactly one of us:  the late earl mawwied into cotton, or wool, or something.  So she said, ‘Name your price for him.’  I shwugged my shoulders, smiled affably, and as affectedly as you like, and changed the subject.  But since then things have happened.  I am afwaid it is my duty to make you the judge whether you choose to sail about with that little cub—­Rosa, I can beat about the bush no longer.  Is it a fit thing that a man of genius, at whose feet we ought all to be sitting with reverence, should drive a cab in the public streets?  Yes, Rosa Staines, your husband drives his brougham out at night, not to visit any other lady, as that anonymous wretch told you, but to make a few misewable shillings for you.”

“Oh, Christie!”

“It is no use, Dr. Staines; I must and will tell her.  My dear, he drove me three nights ago.  He had a cabman’s badge on his poor arm.  If you knew what I suffered in those five minutes!  Indeed it seems cruel to speak of it—­but I could not keep it from Rosa, and the reason I muster courage to say it before you, sir, it is because I know she has other friends who keep you out of their consultations; and, after all, it is the world that ought to blush, and not you.”

Her ladyship’s kindly bosom heaved, and she wanted to cry; so she took her handkerchief out of her pocket without the least hurry, and pressed it delicately to her eyes, and did cry quietly, but without any disguise, like a brave lady, who neither cried nor did anything else she was ashamed to be seen at.

As for Rosa, she sat sobbing round Christopher’s neck, and kissed him with all her soul.

“Dear me!” said Christopher.  “You are both very kind.  But, begging your pardon, it is much ado about nothing.”

Lady Cicely took no notice of that observation.  “So, Rosa dear,” said she, “I think you are the person to decide whether he had not better sail about with that little cub, than—­oh!”

“I will settle that,” said Staines.  “I have one beloved creature to provide for.  I may have another.  I must make money.  Turning a brougham into a cab, whatever you may think, is an honest way of making it, and I am not the first doctor who has coined his brougham at night.  But if there is a good deal of money to be made by sailing with Lord Tadcaster, of course I should prefer that to cab-driving, for I have never made above twelve shillings a night.”

“Oh, as to that, she shall give you fifteen hundred a year.”

“Then I jump at it.”

“What! and leave me?”

“Yes, love:  leave you—­for your good; and only for a time.  Lady Cicely, it is a noble offer.  My darling Rosa will have every comfort—­ay, every luxury, till I come home, and then we will start afresh with a good balance, and with more experience than we did at first.”

Lady Cicely gazed on him with wonder.  She said, “Oh! what stout hearts men have!  No, no; don’t let him go.  See; he is acting.  His great heart is torn with agony.  I will have no hand in parting man and wife—­no, not for a day.”  And she hurried away in rare agitation.