Much as the probability of this marriage had been discussed in the Arlington Street household, the fact came upon Joseph Millard as a surprise. Nothing is so unwelcome to old servants as the marriage of a master who has long been a bachelor. Let the bride be never so fair, never so high-born, she will be looked on as an interloper; and if, as in this case, she happens to be poor and nameless, the bridegroom is regarded as a dupe and a fool; the bride is stigmatized as an adventuress. The valet was fully occupied that evening with preparations for the journey of the following day, and could find no time to call at Mr. Eversleigh's lodgings with his evil tidings. "He'll hear of it soon enough, I dare say, poor, unfortunate young man," thought Mr. Millard. The valet was right. In a few days the announcement of the baronet's marriage appeared in "The Times" newspaper; for, though he had celebrated that marriage with all privacy, he had no wish to keep his fair young wife hidden from the world. "_On Thursday, the 4th instant, at St. Mary's Church, Fulham, Sir Oswald Morton Vansittart Eversleigh, Bart., to Honoria daughter of the late Thomas Milford._" This was all; and this was the announcement which Reginald Eversleigh read one morning, as he dawdled over his late breakfast, after a night spent in dissipation and folly. He threw the paper away from him, with an oath, and hurried to his toilet. He dressed himself with less care than usual, for to-day he was in a hurry; he wanted at once to communicate with his friend, Victor Carrington. The young surgeon lived at the very extremity of the Maida Hill district, in a cottage, which was then almost in the country. It was a comfortable little residence; but Reginald Eversleigh looked at it with supreme contempt. "You can wait," he said to the hackney coachman; "I shall be here in about half an hour." The man drove away to refresh his horses at the nearest inn, and Reginald Eversleigh strode impatiently past the trim little servant-girl who opened the garden gate, and walked, unannounced, into the miniature hall. Everything in and about Victor Carrington's abode was the perfection of neatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but poverty was made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to which Reginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslin curtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, of inexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases of freshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece. Sir Oswald's nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty. For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm. The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus. "Do you mind coming to my laboratory?" he asked, after shaking hands with his unexpected visitor. "I can see that you have something of importance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruption there."