January was watering and freezing old earth by turns, when the Hon. Peter travelled down to the sun of his purse with great news.  He had no sooner broached his lordship’s immediate weakness, than Mountfalcon began to plunge like a heavy dragoon in difficulties.  He swore by this and that he had come across an angel for his sins, and would do her no hurt.  The next moment he swore she must be his, though she cursed like a cat.  His lordship’s illustrations were not choice.  “I haven’t advanced an inch,” he groaned.  “Brayder! upon my soul, that little woman could do anything with me.  By heaven!  I’d marry her to-morrow.  Here I am, seeing her every day in the week out or in, and what do you think she gets me to talk about?—­history!  Isn’t it enough to make a fellow mad? and there am I lecturing like a prig, and by heaven! while I’m at it I feel a pleasure in it; and when I leave the house I should feel an immense gratification in shooting somebody.  What do they say in town?”

“Not much,” said Brayder, significantly.

“When’s that fellow—­her husband—­coming down?”

“I rather hope we’ve settled him for life, Mount.”

Nobleman and parasite exchanged looks.

“How d’ye mean?”

Brayder hummed an air, and broke it to say, “He’s in for Don Juan at a gallop, that’s all.”

“The deuce!  Has Bella got him?” Mountfalcon asked with eagerness.

Brayder handed my lord a letter.  It was dated from the Sussex coast, signed “Richard,” and was worded thus: 

“My beautiful Devil!—­

“Since we’re both devils together, and have found each other out, come to me at once, or I shall be going somewhere in a hurry.  Come, my bright hell-star!  I ran away from you, and now I ask you to come to me!  You have taught me how devils love, and I can’t do without you.  Come an hour after you receive this.”

Mountfalcon turned over the letter to see if there was any more.  “Complimentary love-epistle!” he remarked, and rising from his chair and striding about, muttered, “The dog! how infamously he treats his wife!”

“Very bad,” said Brayder.

“How did you get hold of this?”

“Strolled into Belle’s dressing-room, waiting for her turned over her pincushion hap-hazard.  You know her trick.”

“By Jove!  I think that girl does it on purpose.  Thank heaven, I haven’t written her any letters for an age.  Is she going to him?”

“Not she!  But it’s odd, Mount!—­did you ever know her refuse money before?  She tore up the cheque in style, and presented me the fragments with two or three of the delicacies of language she learnt at your Academy.  I rather like to hear a woman swear.  It embellishes her!”

Mountfalcon took counsel of his parasite as to the end the letter could be made to serve.  Both conscientiously agreed that Richard’s behaviour to his wife was infamous, and that he at least deserved no mercy.  “But,” said his lordship, “it won’t do to show the letter.  At first she’ll be swearing it’s false, and then she’ll stick to him closer.  I know the sluts.”