the only difference between the ghostly anecdotes she related, and those of the other ladies, being that her ghosts were all of them titled, and walked mostly under the burden of a coronet.  For instance, there was the Portuguese Marquis de Col.  He had married a Spanish wife, whose end was mysterious.  Undressing, on the night of the anniversary of her death, and on the point of getting into bed, he beheld the dead woman lying on her back before him.  All night long he had to sleep with this freezing phantom!  Regularly, every fresh anniversary, he had to endure the same penance, no matter where he might be, or in what strange bed.  On one occasion, when he took the live for the dead, a curious thing occurred, which the Countess scrupled less to relate than would men to hint at.  Ghosts were the one childish enjoyment Mrs. Mel allowed herself, and she listened to her daughter intently, ready to cap any narrative; but Mrs. Fiske stopped the flood.

‘You have improved on Peter Smithers, Louisa,’ she said.

The Countess turned to her mildly.

‘You are certainly thinking of Peter Smithers,’ Mrs. Fiske continued, bracing her shoulders.  ’Surely, you remember poor Peter, Louisa?  An old flame of your own!  He was going to kill himself, but married a Devonshire woman, and they had disagreeables, and she died, and he was undressing, and saw her there in the bed, and wouldn’t get into it, and had the mattress, and the curtains, and the counterpanes, and everything burnt.  He told us it himself.  You must remember it, Louisa?’

The Countess remembered nothing of the sort.  No doubt could exist of its having been the Portuguese Marquis de Col, because he had confided to her the whole affair, and indeed come to her, as his habit was, to ask her what he could possibly do, under the circumstances.  If Mrs. Fiske’s friend, who married the Devonshire person, had seen the same thing, the coincidence was yet more extraordinary than the case.  Mrs. Fiske said it assuredly was, and glanced at her aunt, who, as the Countess now rose, declaring she must speak to Evan, chid Mrs. Fiske, and wished her and Peter Smithers at the bottom of the sea.

‘No, no, Mama,’ said the Countess, laughing, ’that would hardly be proper,’ and before Mrs. Fiske could reply, escaped to complain to Evan of the vulgarity of those women.

She was not prepared for the burst of wrath with which Evan met her.  ‘Louisa,’ said he, taking her wrist sternly, ’you have done a thing I can’t forgive.  I find it hard to bear disgrace myself:  I will not consent to bring it upon others.  Why did you dare to couple Miss Jocelyn’s name with mine?’

The Countess gave him out her arm’s length.  ‘Speak on, Van,’ she said, admiring him with a bright gaze.

‘Answer me, Louisa; and don’t take me for a fool any more,’ he pursued.  ’You have coupled Miss Jocelyn’s name with mine, in company, and I insist now upon your giving me your promise to abstain from doing it anywhere, before anybody.’