"Oh, Molly, I will not have you turned out of your room for any one," says Letitia; but she says it faintly, and is conscious of a feeling of relief at her heart as she speaks. "But indeed he shall. It is such a pretty room that he cannot fail to be impressed. Any one coming from a hot city, and proving insensible to the charms of the roses that are now creeping into my window, would be unfit to live. Even a hussar must have a soft spot somewhere. I foresee those roses will be the means of reducing him to a lamb-like meekness." "You are too good, Molly. It seems a shame," says Letitia, patting her sister-in-law's hand, and still hesitating, through a sense of duty; "does it not, John?" "It is so difficult to know what a woman really means by the word, 'shame,'" replies John, absently, being deep in the morning's paper. "You said it was a shame yesterday when the cat drank all the cream; and Molly said it was a shame when Wyndham ran away with Crofton's wife." "Don't take any notice of him, Letty," says Molly, with a scornful shrug of her pretty shoulders, turning her back on her brother, and resuming the all-important subject of the expected visitor. "Another railway accident, and twenty men killed," says Mr. Massereene, in a few minutes, looking up from his _Times_, and adopting the lugubrious tone one always assumes on such occasions, whether one cares or not. "Wasn't it fortunate we put up those curtains clean last week?" murmurs Letitia, in a slow, self-congratulatory voice. "More than fortunate," says Molly. "_Twenty_ men killed, Letty!" repeats Mr. Massereene, solemnly. "I don't believe there is a spare bath in the house," exclaims Letitia, again sinking into the lowest depth of despair. "You forget the old one in the nursery. It will do for the children very well, and he can have the new one," says Molly. "Twenty men _killed_, Molly!" reiterates Mr. Massereene, a faint gleam of surprised disgust creeping into his eyes. "So it will, dear. Molly, you are an immense comfort. What did you say, John? Twenty men killed? _Dreadful!_ I wonder, Molly, if I might suggest to him that I would not like him to smoke in bed? I hear a great many young men have that habit; indeed, a brother of mine, years ago, at home, nearly set the house on fire one night with a cigar." "Let me do all the lecturing," says Molly, gayly; "there is nothing I should like better." "Talk of ministering angels, indeed!" mutters Mr. Massereene, rising, and making for the door, paper and all. "I don't believe they would care if England was swamped, so long as they had clean curtains for Luttrell's bed." CHAPTER II. "A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty." --Shelley.