"Oh, I shan't be miserable, either. Now that I have told some one I feel better. I have had a good cry, brought on my thorough vexation, and will now dismiss both the occurrence and his lordship from my mind." "Shall you find that an easy task? The latter part of it, I mean?" "Quite easy--nothing more so," replies she, with a saucy uplifting of her chin as she leaves me. As the hat I wish to wear has been locked away in a certain part of a wardrobe where I am certain no hat was ever stowed before, it takes me some time to discover it. When at length I do so, I find I am considerably behind time, and catching up my gloves, run hastily along the gallery, and down the western corridor, that will bring me a degree sooner to the hall below. As I turn the corner I come without any warning upon Marmaduke and Lady Blanche Going, evidently in deep and interesting converse. I stop short; and both, looking up, see me. "Rage and indignation fill me at this unexpected rencontre. What _can_ this woman have to whisper to my husband that might not be said in public?" Blanche, with the utmost composure, nods her head, smiles, and vanishes down the staircase, leaving me alone with Marmaduke; while he stands frowning heavily, and apparently much annoyed by what has just been said. His black looks deepen as his eyes meet mine; but as, with raised head and naughty lips, I pass him by, he suddenly moves towards me, and, throwing his arms round me, strains me passionately to him, and, turning up my face, kisses me twice, thrice, upon my mouth. Still smarting under my angry thoughts, I tear myself from his embrace and stand aloof, panting with mortification. "How dare you?" I gasp. "Don't attempt to touch me." "What! has your indifference _already_ changed to hatred?" says he, bitterly, as I walk rapidly away. --- The sun shines out with redoubled power and brilliancy, and, toiling up Carlisle street, we find ourselves before the door of the principal hotel in Warminster. Such a goodly turnout as ours is seldom seen even in this busy, bustling town, and the waiters and hostlers come out to admire and tender their services. To the enterprising owner of this grand hotel belongs the rink, and thither we bend our footsteps. To see the world on wheels--to see the latest, newest vanity of the Great Fair--is my ambition. Turning a corner, we enter a gateway adjoining the hotel; we pass the mystic portal, we pay the inevitable shilling, throw ourselves upon the mercies of the movable barrier, and find ourselves _there_. Just at first the outside circle of admirers prevents our catching sight of the performers, and the dull grating noise of the machines falls unpleasantly upon our ears. We draw nearer the chattering, gaping crowd, and by degrees edge our way in, until we too have a full view of all that is to be seen. Surely there is a mistake somewhere, and it is wheels, wheels, wheels, _not_ love, that 'makes the world go round.'