“But who said as much, sir?” broke she in, angrily. “And the caviare, Mr. Spicer,--have you remembered the caviare?” lisped out Lady Grace. “Yes, my Lady; but Fortnum's people are afraid some of it may prove a failure. There was something, I don't know what, happened to the fish in the Baltic this year.” “Who ventured to say black was unbecoming to me?” asked Lady Lackington, changing her question, and speaking more angrily. “It was Frontin, my Lady, who remarked that you once had said nothing would ever induce you to wear that odious helmet widows sometimes put on.” “Oh dear; and I have such a fancy for it,” exclaimed Lady Grace. “You mistake, my dear; you are confounding the occasion with the costume,” said Lady Lackington; and her eyes sparkled with the malice of her remark. Mr. Spicer's face exhibited as much enjoyment of the wit as he deemed decorous to the party satirized. “And now, sir, for the important part of your mission r have you obtained any information about my brother-in-law?” “Yes, my Lady, I saw him at Chiavenna. He drove up to the post-house to change horses as we were there; he told me, in the few minutes we spoke together, that they were on their way to Rome.” “Whom do you mean, sir, when you say 'they'?” “Lord and Lady Lackington, my Lady.” “Is he married? Did you say he was married, sir?'” exclaimed she, in a voice discordant above all her efforts to restrain. “Yes, my Lady; I was, in a manner, presented to her Ladyship, who was, I must say, a very beautiful person--” “I want no raptures, sir; are you quite certain she was his wife?” “His Lordship told me so, my Lady; and when they reached the Hôtel Royal, at Milan, I took occasion to question the courier! whom I knew before, and he told me all about it.” “Go on, sir.” “Well, my Lady, they were just married about ten or twelve days when I met them; the ceremony had been performed in some little out-of-the-way spot in the Rhine country, where Mr. Beecher had been staying for the summer, and where, as it happened, he never received any tidings of the late Lord's death, or the presumption is, he had never made this unfortunate connection.” “What do you mean by 'unfortunate connection '?” “Why, one must really call it so, my Lady; the world, at least, will say as much.” “Who is she, sir?” “She's the daughter of one of the most notorious men in England, my Lady,--the celebrated leg, Grog Davis.” Ah, Mr. Spicer, small and insignificant as you are, you have your sting, and her Ladyship has felt it. These words, slowly uttered in a tone of assumed sorrow, so overcame her they were addressed to, that she covered her face with her handkerchief and sat thus, speechless, for several minutes. To Spicer it was a moment of triumph,--it was a vengeance for all the insults, all the slights she showered upon him, and he only grieved to think how soon her proud spirit would rally from the shock.