In spite of the bright and characteristic letter which Miss Desborough left for her host,—­a letter which mingled her peculiar shrewd sense with her humorous extravagance of expression,—­the consul spent a somewhat uneasy evening under the fire of questions that assailed him in reference to the fair deserter.  But he kept loyal faith with her, adhering even to the letter of her instructions, and only once was goaded into more active mendacity.  The conversation had turned upon “Debs,” and the consul had remarked on the singularity of the name.  A guest from the north observed, however, that the name was undoubtedly a contraction.  “Possibly it might have been ‘Debborough,’ or even the same name as our fair friend.”

“But didn’t Miss Desborough tell you last night that she had been hunting up her people, with a family tree, or something like that?” said Lord Algernon eagerly.  “I just caught a word here and there, for you were both laughing.”

The consul smiled blandly.  “You may well say so, for it was all the most delightful piece of pure invention and utter extravagance.  It would have amused her still more if she had thought you were listening and took it seriously!”

“Of course; I see!” said the young fellow, with a laugh and a slight rise of color.  “I knew she was taking some kind of a rise out of you, and that remark reminded me of it.”

Nevertheless, within a year, Lord Algernon was happily married to the daughter of a South African millionaire, whose bridal offerings alone touched the sum of half a million.  It was also said that the mother was “impossible” and the father “unspeakable,” the relations “inextinguishable;” but the wedding was an “occasion,” and in the succeeding year of festivity it is presumed that the names of “Debs” and “Desborough” were alike forgotten.

But they existed still in a little hamlet near the edge of a bleak northern moor, where they were singularly exalted on a soaring shaft of pure marble above the submerged and moss-grown tombstones of a simple country churchyard.  So great was the contrast between the modern and pretentious monument and the graves of the humbler forefathers of the village, that even the Americans who chanced to visit it were shocked at what they believed was the ostentatious and vulgar pride of one of their own countrywomen.  For on its pedestal was inscribed:—­

Sacred to the Memory
of
John Debs Desborough,
Formerly of this parish,
Who departed this life October 20th, 1892,
At Scrooby Priory,
At the age of eighty-two years. 
This monument was erected as a loving testimony
by his granddaughter,
Sadie Desborough, of New York, U. S. A.

“And evening brings us home.”

SALOMY JANE’S KISS