Wonders never cease.  Surprises are the lot of man; but perhaps a greater surprise had never been experienced by those who knew what was what, than when it went forth to the world that Sir Francis Levison had converted himself from—­from what he was—­into a red-hot politician.

Had he been offered the post of prime minister?  Or did his conscience smite him, as was the case with a certain gallant captain renowned in song?  Neither the one nor the other.  The simple fact was, that Sir Francis Levison was in a state of pecuniary embarrassment, and required something to prop him up—­some snug sinecure—­plenty to get and nothing to do.

Patch himself up he must.  But how?  He had tried the tables, but luck was against him; he made a desperate venture upon the turf, a grand coup that would have set him on his legs for some time, but the venture turned out the wrong way, and Sir Francis was a defaulter.  He began then to think there was nothing for it but to drop into some nice government nest, where, as I have told you, there would be plenty to get and nothing to do.  Any place with much to do would not suit him, or he it; he was too empty-headed for work requiring talent; you may have remarked that a man given to Sir Francis Levison’s pursuits generally is.

He dropped into something good, or that promised good—­nothing less than the secretaryship to Lord Headthelot, who swayed the ministers in the upper House.  But that he was a connection of Lord Headthelot’s he never would have obtained it, and very dubiously the minister consented to try him.  Of course a condition was, that he should enter parliament the first opportunity, his vote to be at the disposal of the ministry—­rather a shaky ministry—­and supposed, by some, to be on its last legs.  And this brings us to the present time.

In a handsome drawing-room in Eaton Square, one sunny afternoon, sat a lady, young and handsome.  Her eyes were of violet blue, her hair was auburn, her complexion delicate; but there was a stern look of anger, amounting to sullenness, on her well-formed features, and her pretty foot was beating the carpet in passionate impatience.  It was Lady Levison.

The doings of the past had been coming home to her for some time now—­past doings, be they good or be they ill, are sure to come home, one day or another, and bring their fruits with them.

In the years past—­many years past now—­Francis Levison had lost his heart—­or whatever the thing might be that, with him, did duty for one—­to Blanche Challoner.  He had despised her once to Lady Isabel—­as Lord Thomas says in the old ballad; but that was done to suit his own purpose, for he had never, at any period, cared for Lady Isabel as he had cared for Blanche.  He gained her affection in secret—­they engaged themselves to each other.  Blanche’s sister, Lydia Challoner, two years older than herself suspected it, and taxed Blanche with it.  Blanche, true to her compact of keeping it a secret, denied it with many protestations. “She did not care for Captain Levison; rather disliked him, in fact.”  “So much the better,” was Miss Challoner’s reply; for she had no respect for Captain Levison, and deemed him an unlikely man to marry.