"I ought to have told you, my dear, that I was in Mr. Mountjoy's company the night before he returned to England. We had said some disagreeable things to each other here in the cottage, while you were away in your room. My tongue got the better of my judgment. In short, I spoke rudely to our guest. Thinking over it afterwards, I felt that I ought to make an apology. He received my sincere excuses with an amiability of manner, and a grace of language, which raised him greatly in my estimation." There you have Lord Harry's own words! Who would suppose that he had ever been jealous of the man whom he spoke of in this way? I explain it to myself, partly by the charm in Hugh's look and manner, which everybody feels; partly by the readiness with which my husband's variable nature receives new impressions. I hope you agree with me. In any case, pray let Hugh see what I have written to you in this place, and ask him what he thinks of it.* *_Note by Mrs. Vimpany._--I shall certainly not be foolish enough to show what she has written to Mr. Mountjoy. Poor deluded Iris! Miserable fatal marriage! Encouraged, as you will easily understand, by the delightful prospect of a reconciliation between them, I was eager to take my first opportunity of speaking freely of Hugh. Up to that time, it had been a hard trial to keep to myself so much that was deeply interesting in my thoughts and hopes. But my hours of disappointment were not at an end yet. We were interrupted. A letter was brought to us--one of many, already received!--insisting on immediate payment of a debt that had been too long unsettled. The detestable subject of our poverty insisted on claiming attention when there was a messenger outside, waiting for my poor Harry's last French bank note. "What is to be done?" I said, when we were left by ourselves again. My husband's composure was something wonderful. He laughed and lit a cigar. "We have got to the crisis," he said. "The question of money has driven us into a corner at last. My darling, have you ever heard of such a thing as a promissory note?" I was not quite so ignorant as he supposed me to be; I said I had heard my father speak of promissory notes. This seemed to fail in convincing him. "Your father," he remarked, "used to pay his notes when they fell due." I betrayed my ignorance, after all. "Doesn't everybody do the same?" I asked. He burst out laughing. "We will send the maid to get a bit of stamped paper," he said; "I'll write the message for her, this time." Those last words alluded to Fanny's ignorance of the French language, which made it necessary to provide her with written instructions, when she was sent on an errand. In our domestic affairs, I was able to do this; but, in the present case, I only handed the message to her. When she returned with a slip of stamped paper, Harry called to me to come to the writing-table. "Now, my sweet," he said, "see how easily money is to be got with a scratch of the pen."