“Exactly, my lady. Oh, your servant, of course. Before ladies. A Burley Bennet, I said. Long and short was, he wanted to take her up to London. Says old Mel: ‘London’s a sad place.’—‘Place to make money,’ says Burley. ‘That’s not work for a young gal,’ says Mel. Long and short was, Burley wanted to take her, and Mel wouldn’t let her go.” Mr. George lowered his tone, and mumbled, “Don’t know how to explain it very well before ladies. What Burley wanted was—it wasn’t quite honourable, you know, though there was a good deal of spangles on it, and whether a real H.R.H., or a Marquis, or a Viscount, I can’t say, but—the offer was tempting to a tradesman. ‘No,’ says Mel; like a chap planting his flagstaff and sticking to it. I believe that to get her to go with him, Burley offered to make a will on the spot, and to leave every farthing of his money and property—upon my soul, I believe it to be true—to Mel and his family, if he’d let the gal go. ‘No,’ says Mel. I like the old bird! And Burley got in a rage, and said he’d leave every farthing to the sailor. Says Mel: ‘I’m a poor tradesman; but I have and I always will have the feelings of a gentleman, and they’re more to me than hard cash, and the honour of my daughter, sir, is dearer to me than my blood. Out of the house!’ cries Mel. And away old Burley went, and left every penny to the sailor, Admiral Harrington, who never noticed ’em an inch. Now, there!” All had listened to Mr. George attentively, and he had slurred the apologetic passages, and emphasized the propitiatory “before ladies” in a way to make himself well understood a generation back. “Bravo, old Mel!” rang the voice of Lady Jocelyn, and a murmur ensued, in the midst of which Rose stood up and hurried round the table to Mrs. Strike, who was seen to rise from her chair; and as she did so, the ill-arranged locks fell from their unnatural restraint down over her shoulders; one great curl half forward to the bosom, and one behind her right ear. Her eyes were wide, her whole face, neck, and fingers, white as marble. The faintest tremor of a frown on her brows, and her shut lips, marked the continuation of some internal struggle, as if with her last conscious force she kept down a flood of tears and a wild outcry which it was death to hold. Sir Franks felt his arm touched, and looked up, and caught her, as Rose approached. The Duke and other gentlemen went to his aid, and as the beautiful woman was borne out white and still as a corpse, the Countess had this dagger plunged in her heart from the mouth of Mr. George, addressing Miss Carrington: “I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. She’s Carry Harrington, old Mel’s daughter, as sure as she’s flesh and blood!” CHAPTER XXIII. TREATS OF A HANDKERCHIEF