The drive from Twickenham to Stuccoville is not a very long one; and Mrs. Tredethlyn’s bays got over the ground at a pace that did credit to the judgment of Mr. Lowther, who had chosen the horses for his friend. It was nearly nine o’clock when the barouche drew up before the Doric colonnade which imparted a funereal darkness to Maude’s dining-room; and before the three ladies could alight, a hansom cab dashed up to the kerbstone, a pair of slamming doors were flung open, and Francis Tredethlyn sprang out upon the pavement. His wife’s face flushed crimson, and then grew deadly pale. She turned to Rosa Grunderson, and murmured in faint, broken accents: “Will you dine with us, Rosa? or shall Martin drive you home?” “Thank you, darling,” Miss Grunderson answered promptly; “I think I’ll come in for just a few moments. Pa will have gone to the Bell and--to his club by this time,” added Rosa, whose parent was wont to spend his evenings in the parlour of a very respectable tavern in the Brompton Road, where he and several other worthies assembled nightly to discuss the affairs of the nation amidst the fumes of their cigars, the primitive clay being strictly tabooed in that select little coterie. Maude alighted and entered the hall. Francis had handed her from the carriage, and followed her into the house. He threw away his cigar as he stepped into the hall, and approached his wife radiant with good spirits and perfumed with tobacco. “I’m so glad you’ve come home,” he said. “I thought you were going to dine with the governor, and that I should have to sit in that dreary room all by myself, with only Landseer’s staghounds to keep me company; though if half the people one calls company were as much alive as _they_ are, a dinner-party wouldn’t be such a dismal business as it is. Of course you haven’t dined; no more have I; and unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be any dinner,” added Mr. Tredethlyn, as he opened the door and looked into the dining-room, where the table was blank and ghastly under a faint glimmer of gas. “No one was expected, I suppose? However, they can get us something. Geoffreys, just see about dinner, will you? How do you do, Miss Grunderson? I dare say you’re hungry after your drive. Are you going up-stairs, Maude?” “Yes,” answered Mrs. Tredethlyn. The syllable had a startling effect as it fell from her lips, like one solitary drop of hail falling suddenly on a summer day. “I am going up-stairs,” said Miss Desmond confidentially to Rosa; “will you come with me, and take off your things?”