And if this ultimate and royal view of the future was even more pleasing than the immediate and personal one, it never occurred to him that there could be any material change in passing from one to the other. Annie Brunel was to be grateful and loving towards him for having taken her from "the squalor of Islington" to give her a wealthy station; she was to be equally grateful and loving when she found herself the means of securing to her husband that position and respect which he had deceived her to obtain. Such trifling points were lost in the full glory which now bathed the future that lay before his eyes. Annie Brunel had shown herself not unwilling to consent, which was equivalent to consenting; and there only remained to be reaped all the gorgeous happiness which his imagination, assisted by a tolerable quantity of wine, could conceive. CHAPTER XXVIII. MOTHER CHRISTMAS’S STORY. Annie Brunel ran into Mrs. Christmas’s room the moment Count Schönstein had left, and, sitting down by the bedside, took the old woman’s lean hand in hers. "Lady Jane, I have been looking over the advertisements in the _Times_, and do you know what I have found?" "No." "One offering me a marvellous lot of money, and a fine house in the country, with nice fresh air and constant attendance for you. Horses, carriages, opera-boxes, months at the seaside—everything complete. There!" "Why don’t you take it, sweetheart?" said the old woman, with a faint smile. "Because—I don’t say that I shan’t take it—there is a condition attached, and such a condition! Not to puzzle you, mother, any more, Count Schönstein wants me to be his wife. Now!" "Are you serious, Annie?" said Mrs. Christmas, her aged eyes full of astonishment. "I can’t say. I don’t think the Count was. You know he is not a witty man, mother, and it _might_ be a joke. But if it was a joke, he acted the part admirably—he pulled two leaves out of my photographic album, and nibbled a hole in the table-cover with his nail. He sate _so_, Lady Jane, and said, in a deep bass voice, ’Miss Brunel, I have 30,000*l.* a year; I am old; I am affectionate; and will you marry me?’ Anything more romantic you could not imagine: and the sighs he heaved, and the anxiety of his face, would have been admirable, had he been dressed as ’Orlando,’ and playing to my ’Rosalind.’ ’_For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee._’ ’_Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!_’" "Sweetheart, have you grown mad? What do you mean?" "I mean what I say. Must I describe the whole scene to you?—my lover’s fearful diffidence, my gentle silence, his growing confidence, my wonder and bewilderment, finally, his half-concealed joy, and my hasty rush to you, Lady Jane, to tell you the news?" "And a pretty return you are making for any man’s confidence and affection, to go on in that way. What did you say to him?" "Nothing." "And what do you mean to say?"