“My _dear_ Lady M’Adam,” cried she, pointing one shoulder at the widow; “my _dear_ Helen,” pointing the other shoulder at the spinster; “my _dear_ Admiral,” pointing both shoulders at that naval commander, “how fortunate I am to find you together, really quite providential! Do you know, my nerves have had _such_ a shock. Papfaddle--you know Papfaddle, Admiral? the faithfullest creature--Papfaddle has found out such a dreadful story from that Miss Manwaring’s maid. I do really think the dear Queen ought to be more careful in her choice. Oh! this Palace might be quite a heaven below, if we could be sure of only having converted persons in our midst! But, only think--Miss Manwaring’s own brother was accused of committing a burglary at Lord Guttleborough’s, and then went and committed suicide, or something dreadful.” “But was he guilty?” asked the Admiral. “Guilty? No, not exactly _guilty_,” answered Lady Lavinia, “but only think, how shocking to be _accused_ even of such dreadful things. Depend upon it, there is no what-you-may-call ’em without thingummy! And the worst of it is, that sort of thing runs in the Blood. Really, if Miss Manwaring should develop a tendency to Klep-Klep-Klep something--Klepsydra, isn’t it?--and I living on the same staircase, whatever should I do?” “Send for the police,” suggested the Admiral. “And if, say at midnight,” pursued Lady Lavinia, without paying any attention to the interruption, “you were to wake up and see Miss Manwaring standing over you with a blunderbuss, or a bayonet, or some such dreadful thing, and demanding your India shawls and Sevres teapots, or your life, what would you do then, Admiral?” and the inevitable shoulders worked up and down like a pump handle. The Admiral looked puzzled. “’Pon my honour,” said he at last, “it would be a doosed--I mean a very awkward situation for a man; but I hope there’s no danger of that.” “There’s no telling, in these cases,” said Lady M’Adam. “No, indeed,” echoed Miss Scheimes. “It’s very dreadful,” continued the widow--looking as virtuous as if there were no such thing as fifth-rate Irish whiskey in the world--“it’s very dreadful, but it is something to know what to expect. No wonder the young person declines the ministrations of dear Mr. Moodle. O--h, the hardness of the unconverted heart!” And then, having taken away a sister’s character by spying, innuendo, malice, and hatred, the three “converted” and “saved” ladies became quite cheerful, as they sipped their tea, with just a _soupçon_ of something stronger in it, and turned to small talk and gossip, which in “unconverted” people would have been deemed worldly enough. But then, as Miss Scheimes once remarked, “when one _knows_ one’s saved, it’s so nice to feel that it makes no difference what one says or does, for it _must_ be all right at the last.” CHAPTER XXI. SERGEANT SMITH, V.C.