“No, ma’am, he did not; he said he had forgotten it.” “And he asked for me--not for Mr. West?” she continued indifferently, glancing at her parent, who was rapidly turning over a pile of notes, and picking out those emblazoned with a coronet. “I’ll tell you who it was,” he broke in; “it was Lord Maltravers. He came about that macaw he promised you.” “No, sir,” put in Jeames, firmly but respectfully; “it was no gentleman I ever saw before--certainly not Lord Maltravers--though he might have been a lord for all I know to the contrary.” “It wasn’t a tradesman?” “Oh no, sir!” most emphatically. “What was he like?” inquired Madeline, opening a letter very deliberately as she spoke, her thoughts very far away from Laurence. “Well, ma’am, he looked quite the gentleman. He was tall, about my ’ight” (complacently), “very dark eyes, a short beard--what you’d consider a ’andsome young man. He carried a queer-looking stick with a ivory top, and he seemed disappointed as you were not at home!” “A queer-looking cane with an ivory top, and he seemed disappointed!” The letter fluttered out of Madeline’s hands, and fell to the ground, as the unconscious Jeames thus blandly announced that the visitor had been her husband! She was glad to stoop quickly, and thus hide her face, with its sudden increase of colour. Laurence had come up to see her! What rashness! What madness! “Well!” exclaimed her father, looking at her sharply, “have you made out your mysterious visitor, eh?--eh?--eh?” “I think he must have been the brother of one of my school-fellows from the description,” she said, with wonderful composure, tearing open another letter as she spoke. “Humph!” grunted Mr. West, in a tone that showed that school-fellows’ brothers were not at all in his line. “Here is an invitation to Lord Carbuncle’s for Thursday week,” said his daughter, dexterously turning the current of his thoughts into a much less dangerous channel, and holding out the note for his perusal. “Thursday week. Let’s see; what is there for Thursday week, eh?” “We dine with the Thompson-Thompsons in Portland Place.” “Oh dear me, yes, so we do,” querulously. “What a confounded nuisance!” in a tone of intense exasperation. “Can’t we throw them over?” But his daughter gave him no encouragement, knowing full well the enormity of throwing people over when a better engagement presented itself, and that such proceedings were not countenanced by good society in Vanity Fair. So Mr. West (who was cheered by another coroneted invitation-card) was fain to submit with what grace he could muster. * * * * *