“’Tis the most dreadful tale, child, that’s current,” said my Lady Kilcroney to her friend, Nan Day, as they met in Madame Mirabel’s hat shop. “They say my young Lord Ashmore has put an end to himself. I met the Duke of Hampshire anon, and His Grace could scarce speak, so overwhelmed was he. Lord Ashmore’s father was his friend and neighbour.” Pamela Pounce put down the dove-coloured capote she had been about to place upon Lady Anne Day’s pretty head. She was more affected than her customer, who looked up, knitting her brows vaguely, with small interest in her blue eyes. “Ashmore?” “Why, Nan, he that was young Ambrose! A pretty youth, and full of promise. It seems he was mad in love with Falcon, the actress. Did you see her Lady Teazle last night? ’Twas a wonder, my love, but a thought too solemn. But, oh, Pounce, child, she had a hat! You should have seen it! With all your art, you’ve never dreamt one like it. Eglantine, Eglantine at her best. Paris was stamped all over it. When all is said and done there is naught like the French taste.” “I have always said so, my Lady,” responded Miss Pounce, “and there’s a case upstairs full of the real Paris modes, of which I’d like your Ladyship to have her pick this moment! Perhaps the last consignment we’ll get for goodness knows how long, seeing the trouble over there. Fetched at the Dover coach office by our special messenger not half an hour ago, I do assure your Ladyship.” Pamela could control her voice better than her hands, and the professional patter escaped her almost mechanically. “But I haven’t seen how the capote suits me,” protested Nan Day, a little pettishly. “Kitty, what say you? I’ve been so long in the fields. I was scarce fit to go out in a chair at Bath, so worn was I with the sick-nursing,” complained the squire’s wife, “I have positively forgot what a fashion looks like. Sister Susan promised to meet me here and advise--not indeed that I care for my Lady Verney’s taste. You are ten thousand times better, my dearest Kitty. Pray give me your opinion.” “My love,” said Kitty, “in all sober earnest I am too overset to be able to give my mind to it as I ought. That unfortunate young man! It seems Lord Harborough cast him out of her dressing-room last night, and there was a monstrous great scandal at the theatre door. The wretched girl, my Lord Harborough----” “And what, my Lady, have you heard of it already?” said a masculine voice behind her. And all started to behold Lord Verney in their midst. “I thought I was the first to have wind of it, coming straight from Brooks’s. ’Tis scarce an hour since he was picked up unconscious.” “Never say,” cried my Lady Kilcroney in horror, “that he had so little discretion as to choose a club for such an act.” Lord Verney stared. “Why, Madame, you speak as if the poor Marquis had had any choice in the matter?” “The poor Marquis? In Heaven’s name, collect your wits. ’Tis not Lord Harborough who has committed suicide?”