“_a little matter which I wish to discuss with you. I think when you hear what it is, you will agree ’twas worth wasting half an hour on your attached aunt-in-law_, “KITTY KILCRONEY.” Kitty shook the pounce-box over the sheet, folded, superscribed, and affixed with a pat a knowing little wafer which bore the semblance of a rose with the touching motto: “Sweet unto death.” Then, popping her round chin on her clasped hands, she gave herself to reflection, quite a minute’s reflection. “If you want a thing well done, do it yourself. There never was a sounder saw. I’ll not trust Lydia.” My Lady took up her pen again. “_My good Pounce_”--thus ran the quill--“_Pray present yourself here on Thursday at three o’clock, bringing the dark baby about which there’s such a to-do. I think I have proved myself a friend to you; do you prove that you recognise it by falling in with my desire._ “K. KILCRONEY. “_P.S.--I was never more anxious to act well by you than in this instance._” Having despatched these missives, my Lady kept her counsel; and when the answers came--Mr. Bellairs’s reply accepting rather effusively, with indeed, as his benefactress felt, not without some malice, a lively sense of favours to come; and Pamela’s in four respectful lines couched in the best millinery phraseology--the plotter locked them into her bureau, and forbade Lydia to mention the subject to her again, if she valued her situation. On the Thursday afternoon fixed for the meeting my Lady Kilcroney thoroughly prepared to enjoy herself. There was nothing she more relished than the ruling of a difficult situation. She had no qualms as to the extent of her genius; she had no inconvenient scruples as to her wisdom. The nephew of her late poor Bellairs had, it seemed, wronged the young person in whom she took an interest. He should be made to right that wrong, or her name was not Kitty Kilcroney. When the hour approached she clothed herself in garments subtly adapted to her role, rich in texture, yet grave in hue; a mulberry satin, to be precise, brocaded with amber roses. Her toilet accomplished, she flung a satisfied look into her mirror. ’Twas a bit heavy for a summer’s day, but really, with the old deep-hued lace at throat and elbows, mightily becoming. Then she wheeled upon her maid. “Now, Lydia,” ordered she, “you are not to show your nose till I bid you. I’ll not have you poking it into my arrangements. It’s a deal too sharp and fond of prying, as it is. Ay, I do expect your niece and Mr. Jocelyn Bellairs. And, no, I haven’t told you anything about it. I’m to manage this business or I wash my hands of it. If you goggle your eyes any more, Lydia, they will drop out! Nay, I will not permit you a word with Pamela. Nay, not so much as a look at her. You will keep to your premises till I ring my bell.”