“It lies between the Lombard Browns and the Horace Hiccirys, my dear. The Hiccirys live in better style, I know: Mrs. Hicciry was to have been presented at Court last year, only little Curatius chose to be born instead--the most lovely child! But the Lombard Browns are godsons, at least _he_ is, of poor dear Sir Pinchbeck’s, and they’ve not dined here this season.” “I think, dear Lady Lombard, if I might venture to advise, the Horace Hiccirys would do best. Mrs. General Gudgeon would get on so well with Mrs. Hicciry, I’m sure; and I’m afraid Mrs. Dackerel,--you know she’s very clever, writes poetry, those sweet things in the Bijou--all clever people are sarcastic, you know,--I’m afraid Mrs. Dackerel might laugh at poor dear Mr. Lombard Brown’s little eccentricity about his H’s.” “Ah, yes, that’s true,” returned Lady Lombard; “yes, I forgot his H’s.” “As he probably does himself,” whispered Mrs. Arundel aside to Rose. “Then, my dear Miss Arundel, may I trouble you to write a note to the Horace Hicciry’s--with two I’s, my love--15 Bellairs Terrace, Park Village West. What a pretty hand you write, and so quick I Then if Mr. De Grandeville will only come, the table will be filled properly.” “And a dear, charming party it will be,” cooed the bereaved one, who had manoeuvred herself into an invitation at an early stage of the proceedings. “Yes, my love, I hope it will,” replied the giver of the feast anxiously. “And if I was quite sure that Perquisite and Haricot would not quarrel, and that General Gudgeon would not take too much port wine after dinner, and tell his gentlemen’s stories to the ladies up in the drawing-room, more particularly since I hear Miss MacSalvo has taken an extra serious turn lately, I should feel quite happy about it all.” “You’d better add a postscript to the great Gudgeon’s note mentioning the port wine and its alarming consequences, Rose,” whispered the incorrigible Mrs. Arundel. Her daughter smiled reprovingly, and the sitting concluded. Exactly at the time when Lady Lombard had completely given him up, and was revolving in her anxious mind how she might best supply his loss, De Grandeville condescended graciously to vouchsafe a favourable answer. On the afternoon of the eventful day, as Frere was returning from his place of business, he met--of course accidentally--Tom Bracy, who immediately took possession of his vacant arm and engaged him in a disquisition on the use of formic acid as an anaesthetic agent, which discussion proved so deeply interesting to his companion, that in less than five minutes he was completely lost to all outward objects and reduced (for all practical purposes) to the intellectual level of a docile child of three years old. “Well,” continued Frere eagerly, as Bracy paused before a hairdresser’s shop, “well, supposing, for the sake of argument, I consent to waive my objection; supposing I allow that by the process you describe you’ve produced your acid----”