“Yes!” was the gaping answer.

“The woman who called him, that noble man, husband, quitted him for the other!  Did she come to repentance, think you?”

You may wonder that the submerged gentleman should be walking through the streets, on his way to his quarters, the Raven Inn—­for he had been ejected from the Buck’s Head—­but he could not help himself.  As he was dripping and swearing on the brink of the pond, wondering how he should get to the Raven, an empty fly drove past, and Mr. Drake immediately stopped it; but when the driver saw that he was expected to convey not only a passenger, but a tolerable quantity of water as well, and that the passenger, moreover, was Sir Francis Levison, he refused the job.  His fly was fresh lined with red velvet, and he “weren’t a going to have it spoilt,” he called out, as he whipped his horse and drove away, leaving the three in wrathful despair.  Sir Francis wanted another conveyance procured; his friends urged that if he waited for that he might catch his death, and that the shortest way would be to hasten to the inn on foot.  He objected.  But his jaws were chattering, his limbs were quaking, so they seized him between them, and made off, but never bargained for the meeting of Mr. Carlyle and his party.  Francis Levison would have stopped in the pond, of his own accord, head downward, rather than faced them.

Miss Carlyle went that day to dine at East Lynne, walking back with Mrs. Carlyle, Madame Vine and Lucy.  Lord Vane found them out, and returned at the same time; of course East Lynne was the headquarters of himself and his father.  He was in the seventh heaven, and had been ever since the encounter with the yellows.

“You’d have gone into laughing convulsions, Lucy had you seen the drowned cur.  I’d give all my tin for six months to come to have a photograph of him as he looked then!”

Lucy laughed in glee; she was unconscious, poor child, how deeply the “drowned cur” had injured her.

When Miss Carlyle was in her dressing-room taking her things off—­the room where once had slept Richard Hare—­she rang for Joyce.  These two rooms were still kept for Miss Carlyle—­for she did sometimes visit them for a few days—­and were distinguished by her name—­“Miss Carlyle’s rooms.”

“A fine row we have had in the town, Joyce, this afternoon.”

“I have heard of it, ma’am.  Served him right, if they had let him drown!  Bill White, Squire Pinner’s plowman, called in here and told us the news.  He’d have burst with it, if he hadn’t, I expect; I never saw a chap so excited.  Peter cried.”

“Cried?” echoed Miss Carlyle.

“Well, ma’am, you know he was very fond of Lady Isabel, was Peter, and somehow his feelings overcame him.  He said he had not heard anything to please him so much for many a day; and with that he burst out crying, and gave Bill White half a crown out of his pocket.  Bill White said it was he who held one leg when they soused him in.  Afy saw it—­if you’ll excuse me mentioning her name to you, ma’am, for I know you don’t think well of her—­and when she got in here, she fell into hysterics.”