_Punch_, that she ought." (For it is a thing to be noted, that if the aristocracy of this great country ever permit themselves to be amused, they invariably think that the thing which amused them, no matter of what kind it be, ought to be sent to _Punch_.) Miss Lexden also was a great reader of French novels; she subscribed regularly to Rolandi's, and devoured all that sound sense, morality, philosophy, and extensive knowledge of the world, which yearly issued from the Parisian publishers. In bygone times she had laughed heartily over the farcical humour of M. Paul de Kock; now that her palate had somewhat dulled. Fortune had sent her the titillating works of M. Gustave Flaubert, M. Xavier de Montepin, M. Ernest Feydeau, and others of that modern school which delights in calling a spade a spade, with the broad theories of M. Proudhon to be her political guide, and the casuistries of M. Renan for her Sunday reading. She read all, but liked the novels best; and had been seen to weep over a yellow-covered volume in which an elegant marquis, all soul and black eyes, a _membre du Jockei-Club_, and altogether an adorable person, had to give satisfaction to a brute of a husband who objected to being dishonoured. With one of these yellow-covered volumes on her lap, Miss Lexden was sitting placidly in the easiest of chairs at the open window on the afternoon when Barbara and Churchill held the conversation just narrated. She was a pleasant-looking old lady, with a fat, wrinkleless, full face, like an old child, with a shiny pink-and-white complexion, and with hair which defied you to tell whether it had been wonderfully well preserved, or admirably dyed, arranged under a becoming cap. She was dressed in a rich brown moiré-antique silk, and with a black-lace shawl thrown over her ample shoulders; her fat, pudgy little hands, covered with valuable rings, were crossed over the book on her lap; and she was just on the point of dropping off into a placid slumber, when there came a knock at the door, immediately upon which Barbara entered the room. "Well, Barbara," said the old lady, stifling a yawn; "is it time to dress? I've done nothing since luncheon but read this ridiculous book, and I was very nearly dropping asleep, and I've no notion of the time; and Withers is always gadding about in this house with that steward, and never comes near me till the last moment." "It is quite early, aunt; scarcely six o'clock yet; and I came up to you on purpose to have a quiet _cause_ with you before you dressed. I think I have news which will keep you awake. You've not asked me of my flirtations lately."