grown purple with suppressed excitement.  He knew perfectly well,—­ because he had consented to it,—­that his house had only been ‘used’ for Roxmouth’s purposes, and that he, personally, was of no more consideration to a man like the future Duke of Ormistoune than a landlord for the time being, whose little reckoning for entertainment would in due course be settled in some polite and ceremonious fashion.  And he realised dolefully that his ‘distinguished’ guest might, and probably would, soon take his departure from Badsworth Hall, that abode no longer being of any service to him.  This meant annihilation to many of Sir Morton’s fondest hopes.  He had set his heart on appearing at sundry garden-parties in the neighbourhood during the summer with Lord Roxmouth under his portly wing—­he had meant to hurl Lord Roxmouth here, Lord Roxmouth there at all the less ‘distinguished’ people around him, so that they should almost sink into the dust with shame because they had not had the honour of sheltering his lordship within their walls,—­and he had expected to add considerably to his own importance by ‘helping on’ the desired union between Roxmouth Castle and the Vaneourt millions.  Now this dream was over, and he could willingly have thrown plates and dishes and anything else that came handy at the very name of Maryllia for her ‘impudence’ as he called it, in leaving them all in the lurch.

“It will be quite easy to ascertain where she has gone,”—­said Marius Longford presently, in soft conciliatory accents—­“Lady Wicketts will probably know, and Miss Fosby—–­”

“Damn Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby!” snapped out Sir Morton, this time without any apology—­“A couple of female donkeys!  ’Kind of me to call upon them!’ God bless my soul!  I should think it would be kind!  Nobody but a fool would go near them—–­”

“They are very pleasant, good women,”—­said Miss Tabitha with severe serenity—­“Personally, I much prefer them to Miss Vancourt.”

Sir Morton snorted contempt; Mr. Longford coughed discreetly.

“Miss Vancourt has not yet ripened sufficiently to bear comparison with Lady Wicketts,”—­he said, smoothly—­“or with Miss Fosby.  But I think, Miss Pippitt, there is a great deal in what you say!” Miss Tabitha bowed, and smiled a vinegary smile.  “Lady Wicketts has a fine mind—­very fine!  Her husband, Sir Thomas—–­”

“Oh never mind her husband!” blustered Sir Morton,—­

“He’s dead.  And a good job too—­for himself.  Now what’s to be done, my dear lord, eh?—­what’s to be done?”

Roxmouth looked up and managed to force his usual conventional smile.

“Nothing!”

“Nothing?  Oh come, come!  That won’t do!  Paint heart never won fair lady—­ha-ha-ha!  God bless my soul!  The course of true love never did run smooth—­that’s the advice of what’s-his-name—­Shakespeare.  Ha-ha!  By the bye, what’s become of that poet acquaintance of yours, Longford?  Oughtn’t he to have known something about this?  Didn’t you tell him to keep a sharp look-out on Maryllia Van, eh?”