“Oh yes! yes!  I do.  One who does not give his conscience I would not have.”

“If he gives his heart and body, can he give more?”

Lucy’s hand pressed the bell.  She did not like the doubtful light with one who was so unscrupulous.  Lord Mountfalcon had never spoken in this way before.  He spoke better, too.  She missed the aristocratic twang in his voice, and the hesitation for words, and the fluid lordliness with which he rolled over difficulties in speech.

Simultaneously with the sounding of the bell the door opened, and presented Tom Bakewell.  There was a double knock at the same instant at the street door.  Lucy delayed to give orders.

“Can it be a letter, Tom!—­so late?” she said, changing colour.  “Pray run and see.”

“That an’t powst” Tom remarked, as he obeyed his mistress.

“Are you very anxious for a letter, Mrs. Feverel?” Lord Mountfalcon inquired.

“Oh, no!—­yes, I am, very.” said Lucy.  Her quick ear caught the tones of a voice she remembered.  “That dear old thing has come to see me,” she cried, starting up.

Tom ushered a bunch of black satin into the room.

“Mrs. Berry!” said Lucy, running up to her and kissing her.

“Me, my darlin’!” Mrs. Berry, breathless and rosy with her journey, returned the salute.  “Me truly it is, in fault of a better, for I ain’t one to stand by and give the devil his licence—­roamin’! and the salt sure enough have spilte my bride-gown at the beginnin’, which ain’t the best sign.  Bless ye!—­Oh, here he is.”  She beheld a male figure in a chair by the half light, and swung around to address him.  “You bad man!” she held aloft one of her fat fingers, “I’ve come on ye like a bolt, I have, and goin’ to make ye do your duty, naughty boy!  But your my darlin’ babe,” she melted, as was her custom, “and I’ll never meet you and not give to ye the kiss of a mother.”

Before Lord Mountfalcon could find time to expostulate the soft woman had him by the neck, and was down among his luxurious whiskers.

“Ha!” She gave a smothered shriek, and fell back.  “What hair’s that?”

Tom Bakewell just then illumined the transaction.

“Oh, my gracious!” Mrs. Berry breathed with horror, “I been and kiss a strange man!”

Lucy, half-laughing, but in dreadful concern, begged the noble lord to excuse the woful mistake.

“Extremely flattered, highly favoured, I’m sure;” said his lordship, re-arranging his disconcerted moustache; “may I beg the pleasure of an introduction?”

“My husband’s dear old nurse—­Mrs. Berry,” said Lucy, taking her hand to lend her countenance.  “Lord Mountfalcon, Mrs. Berry.”

Mrs. Berry sought grace while she performed a series of apologetic bobs, and wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

Lucy put her into a chair:  Lord Mountfalcon asked for an account of her passage over to the Island; receiving distressingly full particulars, by which it was revealed that the softness of her heart was only equalled by the weakness of her stomach.  The recital calmed Mrs. Berry down.