“Stop!” she cried. “You must stop, Mr. Carter.” So then I stopped. I folded the letter and handed it back to her. Her cheeks flushed red as she took it. “I thought you were a gentleman,” said she, biting her lip. “I was at Monte Carlo last winter myself,” said I. “Lord Mickleham,” said the butler, throwing open the door. RETRIBUTION In future I am going to be careful what I do. I am also--and this is by no means less important--going to be very careful what Miss Dolly Foster does. Everybody knows (if I may quote her particular friend Nellie Phaeton) that dear Dolly means no harm, but she is “just a little harumscarum.” I thanked Miss Phaeton for the expression. The fact is that “old lady M.” (Here I quote Miss Dolly) sent for me the other day. I have not the honor of knowing the Countess, and I went in some trepidation. When I was ushered in, Lady Mickleham put up her “starers.” (You know those abominations! Pince-nez with long torture--I mean tortoise--shell handles.) “Mr.--er--Carter?” said she. I bowed. I would have denied it if I could. “My dears!” said Lady Mickleham. Upon this five young ladies who had been sitting in five straight-backed chairs, doing five pieces of embroidery, rose, bowed, and filed out of the room. I felt very nervous. A pause followed. Then the Countess observed--and it seemed at first rather irrelevant-- “I’ve been reading an unpleasant story.” “In these days of French influence,” I began apologetically (not that I write such stories, or any stories, but Lady Mickleham invites an apologetic attitude), and my eye wandered to the table. I saw nothing worse (or better) than the morning paper there. “Contained in a friend’s letter,” she continued, focusing the “starers” full on my face. I did not know what to do, so I bowed again. “It must have been as painful for her to write as for me to read,” Lady Mickleham went on. “And that is saying much. Be seated, pray.” I bowed, and sat down in one of the straight-back chairs. I also began, in my fright, to play with one of the pieces of embroidery. “Is Lady Jane’s work in your way?” (Lady Jane is named after Jane, the famous Countess, Lady-in-Waiting to Caroline of Anspach.) I dropped the embroidery, and put my foot on my hat. “I believe, Mr. Carter, that you are acquainted with Miss Dorothea Foster?” “I have that pleasure,” said I. “Who is about to be married to my son, the Earl of Mickleham?” “That, I believe, is so,” said I. I was beginning to pull myself together. “My son, Mr. Carter, is of a simple and trusting disposition. Perhaps I had better come to the point. I am informed by this letter that, in conversation with the writer the other day, Archibald mentioned, quite incidentally, some very startling facts. Those facts concern you, Mr. Carter.” “May I ask the name of the writer?” “I do not think that is necessary,” said she. “She is a lady in whom I have the utmost confidence.” “That is, of course, enough,” said I.