An old friend and former fellow-minister had proposed spending a night at Ormersfield.  He was the person whom the Earl most highly esteemed, and, in his own dignified way, he was solicitous that the household should be in more than usually perfect order, holding a long conference with the man of whom he was sure, Frampton.  Would that he could have been equally sure of his son!  He looked at him almost wistfully several times during breakfast, and at last, as they rose, gave an exhortation ’that he would be punctual to dinner at half-past seven, which would give him ample time, and he hoped he would be—­’ He paused for a word, and his son supplied it.  ’On my good behaviour, I understand.’  With that he walked off, leaving Lord Ormersfield telling Mrs. Ponsonby that it was the first introduction, as he had ‘for various reasons’ thought it undesirable to bring Fitzjocelyn early to London, and betraying his own anxiety as to the impression he might produce on Sir Miles Oakstead.  His own perplexity and despondency showed themselves in his desire to view his son with the eyes of others, and he also thought the tenor of Fitzjocelyn’s future life might be coloured by his friend’s opinion.

Evening brought the guest.  Mrs. Ponsonby was not well enough to appear at dinner, but Mary and Mrs. Frost, pleased to see an historical character, were in the drawing-room, enjoying Sir Miles’s agreeable conversation, until they caught certain misgivings reflected in each other’s looks, as time wore on and nothing had been seen or heard of Louis.  The half-hour struck; the Earl waited five minutes, then rang the bell.  ‘Is Lord Fitzjocelyn come in?’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘Bring in the dinner.’

Mary longed to fly in search of him, and spare further vexation.  She had assumed all an elder sister’s feelings, and suffered for him as she used to do, when he was in disgrace and would not heed it.  She heard no more of the conversation, and was insensible to the honour of going in to dinner with the late Secretary of State, as she saw the empty place at the table.

The soup was over, when she was aware of a step in the hall, and beside her stood a grey figure, bespattered with mud, shading his eyes with his hand, as if dazzled by the lights.  ’I beg your pardon,’ were the words, ’but I was obliged to go to Northwold.  I have shot a rose-coloured pastor!’

‘Shot him!’ cried Mary.  ‘Was he much hurt?’

’Killed!  I took him to Miss Faithfull, to be sketched before he is stuffed—­’

A clearer view of the company, a wave of the hand from the Earl, and the young gentleman was gone.  Next he opened the library door, saying, ‘Here’s my pretty behaviour!’

‘Louis! what is the matter?’ cried Mrs. Ponsonby.

’I entirely forgot the right honourable, and marched into the dining-room to tell Aunt Catharine that I have killed a rose-coloured pastor.’

‘Killed what?’