But certain other people had no idea of leaving the matter to the slow and uncertain hand of time. There was a plot afoot. George was in it, and Sidmouth Vane, and Mr. Blodwell; so was the Marquis, and another, whose present name it would ruin our deep mystery to disclose--if it be guessed, there is no help for it. And just when Laura was growing sad, and a little hurt and angry at hearing nothing from George, she chanced to have a conversation with Sidmouth Vane, and emerged therefrom, laughing, blushing, and riotously happy, though the only visible outcome of the talk was an invitation for her mother and herself to join in the mild entertainment of afternoon tea at Vane's rooms the next day. Now, Sidmouth Vane was very deceitful; he, so to say, appropriated to his own use and credit Laura's blushes and Laura's laughter, and, when the invitation came, innocent Mrs. Pocklington, without committing herself to an approval of Mr. Vane, rejoiced to think it pleased Laura to take tea with any young man other than George Neston, and walked into the trap with gracious urbanity. Vane received his guests, Mr. Blodwell supporting him. Mrs. Pocklington and her daughter were the first arrivals, and Vane apologised for the lateness of the others. "Lord Mapledurham is coming," he said, "and he's been very busy lately." "I thought he was out of town," said Mrs. Pocklington. "He only came back yesterday." The door opened, and Vane's servant announced with much pomp, "The Marquis and Marchioness of Mapledurham." The Marquis advanced straight to Mrs. Pocklington; then he took Neaera's hand, and said, "You have always been good to me, Mrs. Pocklington. I hope you'll be as good to my wife." It was hushed up as far as possible, but still it leaked out that, on this sole occasion, Mrs. Pocklington was at a loss--was, in fact, if the word be allowable, flabbergasted. Vane maliciously hinted at burnt feathers and other extreme remedies, and there was really no doubt at all that Laura untied her mother's bonnet-strings. Neaera stood looking on, half proud, half frightened, till Laura ran to her and kissed her, and called her the best friend she had, with much other emotional language. Then Mrs. Pocklington came round, and took a cup of tea, and, still unconsciously doing just as she was meant to do, drifted into the balcony with the Marquis, and had a long conversation with him. When she came back, she found Vane ordering a fresh pot of tea. "But we must really be going," she said. "Mustn't we, Laura?" And as she spoke she took her daughter's hand and patted it. "Do you expect any one else, Vane?" asked Mr. Blodwell. "Well, I did, but he's very late." "Where can he have got to?" asked Neaera, smiling. "Oh, I know where he is," said Vane. "He's--he's only in the next room." Everybody looked at Mrs. Pocklington and smiled. She looked at them all, and last at her daughter. Laura was smiling too, but her eyes were eager and imploring.