During the morning of the day on which Lady Handcock is expected to arrive, I feel strangely nervous and unsettled. I don't seem to care so much for any one's good opinion as for hers. If Marmaduke's sister refuses to like me, I shall take it very hardly indeed, and I do not dare to flatter myself that it may be otherwise. Probably she will be cold and haughty and indifferent, like the generality of grand dames, or, worse still, supercilious and filled with a well-bred mockery only half concealed, like Lady Blanche Going. As she has written to say they will not arrive until five o'clock, I put on my outdoor things after luncheon and wander forth alone in search of good spirits and a frame of mind so altogether radiant as shall help me to conquer fate towards evening. As at four o'clock, however, I retrace my steps, I am by no means certain I have found anything beyond a brilliant color. I cross the threshold and move towards the staircase with the laudable intention of robing myself for conquest be fore their coming, when to my consternation I am met by Tynon, the butler, with the pleasing intelligence that "Sir James and Lady Handcock and Miss Beatoun" have already arrived. Have entered my doors with no hostess to receive them or bid them welcome! What _will_ they think? How awkward it has proved, my going for that stupid walk! I smother a groan, fling my hat at Tynon, and, just as I am, with my hair slightly disarranged, enter the drawing room. At the upper end stands Marmaduke, laughing and talking gayly to a fair-haired, prettily-dressed woman, who in a lower class of existence, might be termed "buxom." To say she is inclining towards _embonpoint_ will, however, sound less shocking to ears polite. I have heard from my husband that she is about thirty years of age, but in the quick glance I take at her I decide she might be any age under that, she is so white and soft and gay. "Oh! here she is," says 'Duke, gladly, as I enter. "I am so sorry!" I murmur, with a rising color, coming quickly forward; "but we did not expect you until five o'clock." As I advance, so does she, and when we meet she lays two small plump, jewelled hands upon my shoulders. "It was all my fault," she says, smiling. "When you know me better you will understand that I cannot _help_ being in a hurry. However, you must forgive me this time, as my appearing at this hour is in itself a flattery, proving how impatient I was to see you." Then, regarding me attentively. "Why, what a child!" she cries; "what a baby! and what delicious eyes! Really, Marmaduke, I hardly know whether most to congratulate or--pity you." She speaks with a curiously pretty accent, putting an emphasis on every third or fourth word that fascinates and pleases the listener. "_Pity!_" return I, amazedly, making an unsuccessful effort to elude her firm grasp, while the indignant color flames into my cheeks. "You speak as if--_why_ should you _pity_ him?"