‘I dare say they appealed to the sensations, emotions, feelings, and notions of the British public,’ said the old lady. ‘Haidee Brinklow, after a campaign of two seasons, was about to marry a middle-aged person who had made much money in something or other, and was prepared to execute handsome settlements. It was all arranged when Lucian burst upon the scene, blazing with triumph, youth, and good looks. He was the comet of that season, and Haidee was attracted by the glitter of his tail. I suppose he and she were madly in love with each other for quite a month--unfortunately, during that month they committed the indiscretion of marriage.’ ‘A runaway marriage, was it not?’ ‘Under the very noses of the mamma and the bridegroom-elect. There was one happy result of the affair,’ said Lady Firmanence musingly; ‘it drove Mrs. Brinklow off to somewhere or other on the Continent, and there she has since remained--she took her defeat badly. Now the jilted gentleman took it in good part--it is said that he is quite a sort of grandpapa in the establishment, and has realised that there are compensations even in being jilted.’ Saxonstowe meditated upon these things in silence. ‘Mrs. Damerel was a pretty girl,’ he said, after a time. ‘Mrs. Damerel is a nice little doll,’ said Lady Firmanence, ‘a very pretty toy indeed. Give her plenty of pretty things to wear and sweets to eat, and all the honey of life to sip at, and she’ll do well and go far; but don’t ask her to draw cheques against a mental balance which she never had, or you’ll get them back--dishonoured.’ ‘Are there any children?’ Saxonstowe asked. ‘Only themselves,’ replied his aunt, ‘and quite plenty too, in one house. If it were not for Millie Chilverstone, I don’t know what they would do--she descends upon them now and then, straightens them up as far as she can, and sets the wheels working once more. She is good to them.’ ‘And who is she? I have some sort of recollection of her name,’ said Saxonstowe. ‘She is the daughter of the parson at Simonstower--the man who tutored Lucian Damerel.’ ‘Ah, I remember--she was the girl who came with him to the Castle that day, and he called her Sprats. A lively, good-humoured girl, with a heap of freckles in a very bright face,’ said Saxonstowe. ‘She is little altered,’ remarked Lady Firmanence. ‘Now, that was the girl for Lucian Damerel! She would have taken care of his money, darned his socks, given him plain dinners, seen that the rent was paid, and made a man of him.’ ‘Admirable qualifications,’ laughed Saxonstowe. ‘But one might reasonably suppose that a poet of Damerel’s quality needs others--some intellectual gifts, for example, in his helpmeet.’