“No, really!” said the Admiral, who was a good-natured old fellow at bottom; “you surprise me. But what makes you think so? what has she done?” “What has she _not_ done?” hissed Miss Scheimes, turning up her eyes, and looking as much as possible like an elderly and puzzled sphynx. “What makes me think so?” continued Lady M’Adam, “why, when I called on her yesterday afternoon, I asked her point blank whether she had a converted heart, and what do you think she said?” “’Pon my honour, I can’t imagine,” answered the Admiral. “Why, she said she hoped so, but that she made it a rule never to confide her religious feelings to perfect strangers. Pretty well for a chit like that! _Hoped_ so, indeed!” “Well, it certainly looked bad,” said the Admiral, not knowing what else to say. “Dreadful!” interpolated Miss Scheimes. “And then, when I asked her whether she would come to the Meeting in my rooms of the Hampton Protestant Auxiliary Eastern-Christians’-Conversion Society, and hear dear Mr. Moodle, who would be present on the occasion as a Deputation from the Parent Society, and who would take her by the right hand and lead her into the right road, she answered that she was much obliged, but that she was quite content with going to Church, and that if she wanted religious advice she always consulted a dear old friend, the Rector, at her old home.” “Quite a father confessor,” interposed Miss Scheimes. “And then I noticed on Sunday--for I can tell you I never took my eyes off her all Service-time--that she turned to the East at the Creed: depend upon it, she’s a ritualist in disguise!” “And perhaps a Jesuit,” said Miss Scheimes. “Well,” said the Admiral, plucking up courage, “the Duchess does that, and for the matter of that, so does fforester.” “Duchess! don’t Duchess me, Admiral, I beg,” retorted the distiller’s widow; as if the possession of that exalted title conferred the privilege of committing any enormity. “This Miss Manwaring isn’t a Duchess, is she? And as for that poor Mr. fforester, we all know what he is; didn’t precious Mr. Moodle say, the last time he addressed us in this very room, that he is a dry branch that withereth afore it be plucked up, a--a----” “A dumb dog,” suggested Miss Scheimes. “Thank you, love,” continued Lady M’Adam, “I was just coming to that when you interrupted me; it’s a habit you’ve got at times. A dumb dog that barketh not when the wolf cometh; a blind lead----” But at that moment the string of protestant Billingsgate was cut short by the door being thrown open, and by the servant announcing in harsh Belfast accent, “The Loidy Laveenia Gatherghoul,” and then in skipped Lady Lavinia, in as lambkin-like a manner as her lame leg and upwards of sixty years in this troublous world permitted.