"He's not very like the present Baronet, my dear," she would say, her haughty features gathering into a sneer--and Lady Scapegrace's sneer was that of Mephistopheles himself; "he is beautiful, exceedingly. I love to look at his hazel eyes, his low antique brow, his silky chestnut hair, and his sweet melancholy smile. Depend upon it, Kate, no man with such a smile as that is ever capable of succeeding in any one thing he undertakes. I don't care what his intellect may be, I don't care what animal courage he may possess, however dashing his spirit, however chivalrous his sentiments--so surely as he has woman's strength of affection, woman's weakness of heart, so surely must he go to the wall. I have seen it a hundred times, Kate, and I never knew it otherwise." Since the affair of the bull Lady Scapegrace had contracted a great affection for me, and would have me to roam about the house with her for hours. She was a clever, intellectual woman, without one idea or sentiment in common with her husband. In this state of mental widowhood she had consoled herself by study, amongst other things; and the history of the family into which she had married afforded her ample materials for reflection and research. She had collected every scrap of writing, every private memorandum, letter, and document that could throw any light upon the subject; and I verily believe she could have concocted a highly interesting volume, detailing the exploits and misdeeds, the fortunes and misfortunes, of the Scapegraces.