"I was once a young man myself, you seem to forget, and I know all about it. Why did you give me that letter?" he asks, grimly. "Are you chicken-hearted, now you have done the deed, like all women? It is too late for remorse to be of use: you _have_ done it. Let it be your portion to remember how you have willfully ruined his prospects." A choking sigh escapes her as she quits the room. Truly she has bought her revenge dearly. Not the poorest trace of sweetness lingers in it. * * * * * By this time it will be perceived that the house is in a secret turmoil. Every one is at daggers drawn with every one else. Molly and Lady Stafford have as yet exchanged no confidences, though keenly desirous of doing so, each having noticed with the liveliest surmisings the depression of the other. Mr. Potts alone, who is above suspicion (being one of those cheerful people who never see anything--no matter how closely under their noses--until it is brought before them in the broadest language), continues blissfully unconscious of the confusion that reigns around, and savors his conversation throughout the evening with as many embarrassing remarks as he can conveniently put in. "Eaten bread is soon forgotten," says he, sententiously, during a pause. "You all seem strangely oblivious of the fact that last night there was a ball in this house. Why shirk the subject? I like talking," says Mr. Potts, superfluously, "and surely you must all have something to communicate concerning it. Thanks to our own exertions, I think it was as good a one as ever I was at; and the old boy"--(I need scarcely say Mr. Amherst has retired to rest)--was uncommon decent about giving us the best champagne." "You took very good care to show him how you appreciated his hospitality," says Sir Penthony, mildly. "Well, why shouldn't I do honor to the occasion? A ball at Herst don't come every day. As a rule, an affair of the kind at a country house is a failure, as the guests quarrel dreadfully among themselves next day; but ours has been a brilliant exception." "Brilliant indeed," says Lady Stafford, demurely. "But what became of Lowry?" demands this wretched young man, who has never yet learned that silence is golden. "He told me this morning he intended staying on until the end of the week, and off he goes to London by the midday train without a word of warning. Must have heard some unpleasant news, I shouldn't wonder, he looked so awfully cut up. Did he tell you anything about it?" To Lady Stafford. "No." In a freezing tone. "I see no reason why I, in particular, should be bored by Mr. Lowry's private woes." "Well, you were such a friend, you know, for one thing," says Potts, surprised, but obtuse as ever. "So I am of yours; but I sincerely trust the fact of my being so will not induce you to come weeping to me whenever you chance to lose your heart or place all your money on the wrong horse." "Did he lose his money, then?"