“Really,” said Lady M’Adam, when the meeting had been duly constituted in her Ladyship’s drawing-room--“really, I have no patience with people who have so little command over their nerves as to faint away in the presence of Royalty; it looks like an insult to the Throne itself, or like rebellion, which we have the highest authority for saying is worse than witchcraft.” “Yes, indeed,” said Lady Lavinia, shrugging the inevitable shoulders; “but, dear Lady M’Adam, I fear it was much worse than that.” “What! Worse than witchcraft?” ejaculated Lady M’Adam, in a hollow tone of voice; “really you frighten me.” “Yes, dearest Lady M’Adam,” responded Lady Lavinia, “worse than that a great deal. My firm belief is that that girl is so puffed up with all that misplaced petting and injudicious putting forward by the poor dear Duchess, that she couldn’t bear to be--what d’ye call it?--oh! playing second thingummy, even for a moment, and that she screamed out, and threw herself down just on purpose to attract the attention of the men. What do _you_ think, my dearest Helen?” Miss Scheimes, thus appealed to, nodded her head solemnly three several times (to the great peril of her front), and then said in oracular tones, “I fear it was much worse even than that!” “No?” said Lady M’Adam. “No?” echoed Lady Lavinia. “Yes!” responded Miss Scheimes; “unhappily I fear it was. Remember I was close to her in the crowd, and what did I see with my own, own eyes?” Miss Scheimes said this as if she was ordinarily in the habit of using other people’s eyes, but on this great occasion had condescended to use her own. “What?” cried Lady M’Adam. “Don’t keep us in suspense, I beg. I trust, I sincerely trust it was nothing very disgraceful.” “I fear, I greatly fear it was,” answered Miss Scheimes, solemnly. “I was standing close to her, remember, and I distinctly saw her fix her eyes, not on the dear Queen, who looked _so_ well in her black bonnet--not on the dear Queen, but on the soldier-man they were making such a fuss about, and then she stretched out her hands, and cried out, ‘Wil----’ and then down she went, flat as a somewhat tasteless fish they call a flounder. Can you put two and two together, dearest Lady Lavinia?” Arithmetic was _not_ one of Lady Lavinia’s strong points, so, with her shoulders trembling like aspen leaves, she answered nervously, “I really _don’t_ feel positively certain, my love; but why do you ask such a very unusual question?” “Because,” interposed Lady M’Adam, sternly, “any one who can put two and two together would know this at once, that Miss Manwaring had seen that man before.” “Good Heavens!” cried Lady Lavinia. “Oh! the mysteries of the unconverted heart!” cried the pork-merchant’s daughter.