Mrs. Morris, supposed to be confined to her room with a bad headache, was engaged in dressing for the masked ball, when a small twisted note was delivered to her by her maid. “Is the bearer of this below stairs?” asked she, eagerly. “Show him in immediately.” The next moment, a short, burly figure, in a travelling-dress, entered, and, saluting her with a kiss on either cheek, unrolled his woollen comforter, and displayed the pleasant, jocund features of Mr. Nicholas Holmes. “How well you are looking, papa!” said she. “I declare I think you grow younger!” “It's the good conscience, I suppose,” said he, laughing. “That and a good digestion help a man very far on his road through life. And how are you, Loo?” “As you see,” said she, laughingly. “With some of those family gifts you speak of, I rub on through the world tolerably well.” “You are not in mourning, I perceive. How is that?” asked he, looking at the amber-colored silk of her dress. “Not to-night, papa, for I was just dressing for a masked ball at the Pergola, whither I was about to go on the sly, having given out that I was suffering from headache, and could not leave my room.” “Fretting over poor Penthony, eh?” cried he, laughing. “Well, of course that might also be inferred. Not but I have already got over my violent grief. I am beginning to be what is technically called 'resigned.'” “Which is, I believe, the stage of looking out for another!” laughed he again. She gave a little faint sigh, and went on with her dressing. “And what news have you for me, papa? What is going on at home?” “Nothing,--absolutely nothing, dear. You don't care for political news?” “Not much. You know I had a surfeit of Downing Street once. By the way, papa, only think of my meeting George!” “Ogden,--George Odgen?” “Yes, it was a strange accident. He came to fetch away a young lad that happened to be stopping with us, and we met face to face--fortunately, alone--in the garden.” “Very awkward that!” muttered he. “So it was; and so he evidently felt it. By the way, how old he has grown! George can't be more than--let me see--forty-six. Yes, he was just forty-six on the 8th of August. You 'd guess him fully ten years older.” “How did he behave? Did he recognize you and address you?” “Yes; we talked a little,--not pleasantly, though. He evidently is not forgiving in his nature, and you know he had never much tact,--except official tact,--and so he was flurried and put out, and right glad to get away.” “But there was no _éclat_,--no scandal?” “Of course not. The whole incident did not occupy ten minutes.” “They 've been at me again about my pension,--_his_ doing, I'm sure,” muttered he,--“asking for a return of services, and such-like rubbish.” “Don't let them worry you, papa; they dare not push you to publicity. It's like a divorce case, where one of the parties, being respectable, must submit to any terms imposed.”