It pulled up a little the eulogist of Mr. Drake. “Well, my dear, I love _you_—” “But you don’t trust me?” the girl unmercifully asked. Again Mrs. Jordan paused—still she looked queer. “Yes,” she replied with a certain austerity; “that’s exactly what I’m about to give you rather a remarkable proof of.” The sense of its being remarkable was already so strong that, while she bridled a little, this held her auditor in a momentary muteness of submission. “Mr. Drake has rendered his lordship for several years services that his lordship has highly appreciated and that make it all the more—a—unexpected that they should, perhaps a little suddenly, separate.” “Separate?” Our young lady was mystified, but she tried to be interested; and she already saw that she had put the saddle on the wrong horse. She had heard something of Mr. Drake, who was a member of his lordship’s circle—the member with whom, apparently, Mrs. Jordan’s avocations had most happened to throw her. She was only a little puzzled at the “separation.” “Well, at any rate,” she smiled, “if they separate as friends—!” “Oh his lordship takes the greatest interest in Mr. Drake’s future. He’ll do anything for him; he has in fact just done a great deal. There _must_, you know, be changes—!” “No one knows it better than I,” the girl said. She wished to draw her interlocutress out. “There will be changes enough for me.” “You’re leaving Cocker’s?” The ornament of that establishment waited a moment to answer, and then it was indirect. “Tell me what _you’re_ doing.” “Well, what will you think of it?” “Why that you’ve found the opening you were always so sure of.” Mrs. Jordan, on this, appeared to muse with embarrassed intensity. “I was always sure, yes—and yet I often wasn’t!” “Well, I hope you’re sure now. Sure, I mean, of Mr. Drake.” “Yes, my dear, I think I may say I _am_. I kept him going till I was.” “Then he’s yours?” “My very own.” “How nice! And awfully rich?” our young woman went on. Mrs. Jordan showed promptly enough that she loved for higher things. “Awfully handsome—six foot two. And he _has_ put by.” “Quite like Mr. Mudge, then!” that gentleman’s friend rather desperately exclaimed. “Oh not _quite!_” Mr. Drake’s was ambiguous about it, but the name of Mr. Mudge had evidently given her some sort of stimulus. “He’ll have more opportunity now, at any rate. He’s going to Lady Bradeen.” “To Lady Bradeen?” This was bewilderment. “‘Going—’?” The girl had seen, from the way Mrs. Jordan looked at her, that the effect of the name had been to make her let something out. “Do you know her?” She floundered, but she found her feet. “Well, you’ll remember I’ve often told you that if you’ve grand clients I have them too.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Jordan; “but the great difference is that you hate yours, whereas I really love mine. _Do_ you know Lady Bradeen?” she pursued. “Down to the ground! She’s always in and out.”