Redworth took the hint.  He stated the title of Mrs. Warwick’s book, and imagined from the thoughtful cast of Rainer’s head, that he was impressing the princess Egeria On his memory.

Rainer burst out, with clenched fists:  ’He beats her!  The fellow lives on her and beats her; strikes that woman!  He drags her about to every Capital in Europe to make money for him, and the scoundrel pays her with blows.’

In the course of a heavy tirade against the scoundrel, Redworth apprehended that it was the cantatrice’s husband.  He expressed his horror and regret; paused, and named the princess Egeria and a certain Critical Review.  Another outburst seemed to be in preparation.  Nothing further was to be done for the book at that hour.  So, with a blunt ‘Good night,’ he left Charles Rainer pacing, and thought on his walk home of the strange effects wrought by women unwittingly upon men (Englishmen); those women, or some of them, as little knowing it as the moon her traditional influence upon the tides.  He thought of Percy Dacier too.  In his bed he could have wished himself peregrinating a bridge.

The princess Egeria appeared, with the reviews at her heels, a pack of clappers, causing her to fly over editions clean as a doe the gates and hedges—­to quote Mr. Sullivan Smith, who knew not a sentence of the work save what he gathered of it from Redworth, at their chance meeting on Piccadilly pavement, and then immediately he knew enough to blow his huntsman’s horn in honour of the sale.  His hallali rang high.  ’Here’s another Irish girl to win their laurels!  ’Tis one of the blazing successes.  A most enthralling work, beautifully composed.  And where is she now, Mr. Redworth, since she broke away from that husband of hers, that wears the clothes of the worst tailor ever begotten by a thread on a needle, as I tell every soul of ’em in my part of the country?’

‘You have seen him?’ said Redworth.

’Why, sir, wasn’t he on show at the Court he applied to for relief and damages? as we heard when we were watching the case daily, scarce drawing our breath for fear the innocent—­and one of our own blood, would be crushed.  Sure, there he stood; ay, and looking the very donkey for a woman to flip off her fingers, like the dust from my great uncle’s prise of snuff!  She’s a glory to the old country.  And better you than another, I’d say, since it wasn’t an Irishman to have her:  but what induced the dear lady to take him, is the question we ’re all of us asking!  And it’s mournful to think that somehow you contrive to get the pick of us in the girls!  If ever we ’re united, ’twill be by a trick of circumvention of that sort, pretty sure.  There’s a turn in the market when they shut their eyes and drop to the handiest:  and London’s a vortex that poor dear dull old Dublin can’t compete with.  I ’ll beg you for the address of the lady her friend, Lady Dunstane.’