Pamela walked back to the writing-table. “I was un-bethinking myself, your Ladyship, that it would be better for me to run back myself, and choose the sprays. Miss Smithson, the person in charge of the office of a Saturday, is that disagreeable, she’d send the wrong sets on purpose. It won’t take me half an hour, my Lady.” She tore the sheet she had begun writing upon in two, and dropped it into the elegant little gilt be-ribboned basket, which was the repository of my Lady Kilcroney’s scraps. She made a brisk curtsy and stepped out of the room. Even Lydia’s sharp eyes failed to perceive that she had not thrown away the livery-man’s crumpled account; that she had thrust into her kerchief. * * * * * Mr. Jocelyn Bellairs was not destined to spend the Sabbath in a sponging house, for he was released on Saturday night, someone having settled Mr. Thomas Jobbin’s livery-stable account, before any other of his creditors had had wind of his arrest. Now the young gentleman had stepped into liberty in a very bad humour. He had no doubt but that he was once again indebted to my Lady Kilcroney in the matter, but, like many another spendthrift, not having the smallest claim upon her generosity he considered that it ought to be unlimited in his regard, and felt himself injured that it should go no further. He had come to view himself as having a right to a share of old Bellairs’s money. Wasn’t he, split him, the last of the name? Now, was this a way to treat the only living representative of a Nabob who had left his widow the command of millions? Just the debt writ off, and not a farthing over to jingle in your pocket, or a question what was to become of a fellow! “Never you turn a hair,” had said my Lord. “I’ll be back again in a jiffy to set you free, and we’ll have a jolly night of it while my Lady’s at her caterwaul.” He had expected no less of one who, like Denis Kilcroney, was profiting not only of his own uncle’s hoard, but of that old gentleman’s tactful demise. But instead of the promised re-appearance a message had been flung in at him, left by a lackey towards seven of the clock; my Lord was mortal sorry, and he sent a bottle of gin and some lemons. And at ten the prisoner had been told he was free. Mr. Bellairs had hot blood, and it was all afire. And the mischief was in it that he might not even have the satisfaction of calling out the dashed Irishman for his insolence, since he couldn’t help being under an obligation. He avoided the Cocoa Tree that evening and plunged into lower haunts, where, not in the very best company, play ran very nearly as high as at the Mayfair clubs. He was an audacious, reckless player, but in the main a successful one. To-night there was something almost fantastic in his luck. He went home in the blue of the morning with his pockets full of gold; his resentful mood was rather augmented by his good fortune than otherwise.