"You would not have accepted my testimony, thinking perhaps that I had motives for exaggeration, or was prompted by an _arrière pensée_, in which, on my word of honour, you're wrong. But those fellows are merely types of society; and their opinion, somewhat differently expressed, is society's opinion." "Has not Mitford's madness cooled down at all?" "It is worse, far and away,--worse than ever--" "And that woman?" "Ah," said Lord Dollamore, "she's been very quiet lately, owing to her husband's death. Poor old boy! poor old Percy Hammond! But she's up in town, I understand, now; and I don't think--" and here Dollamore's crutch-handled stick was evidently whispering confidences into his master's ear,--"I don't think Master Mitford will find it all straight sailing in that quarter just now." "How do you mean? What would induce her to change to him?" "Well, you see, she's a widow now, with a comparatively small income; for I suspect poor old Percy knew more than he ever let on, and instructed Trivett to prepare his will accordingly. So that, besides wanting a husband, she'll want him rich; for she's one of the best hands at getting through money in England. With a husband _in posse_, Mitford's attentions would not do at all." "Ah, I see; but is not her character too well known?" "Not a bit of it; her powers of attraction are enormous still. Why, if I'm rightly informed, a Russian whom you know, I think,--Tchernigow by name,-is making the running there already." "I know him; he was madly in love with her, I heard, the season before last; followed her to Baden and about." "That's the man! Well, he's _revenu_--not to his _premier_, which was probably some Cossack peasant-girl--but to one of his _amours_, and is desperate." "He's enormously wealthy. If she accepted him, there might yet be a chance of happiness for Georgie,--Lady Mitford, I mean." "Don't you believe that for an instant, Alsager!" said Dollamore, looking keenly at him; "you're not posted up in that family history. Matters have gone too far now; there is only one way in which Sir Charles Mitford could really be of service to his wife, and that is by dying. But I'm afraid she would not think so, poor girl!" Then seeing his companion looking very grave, he said, "Come, it's no use brooding over these matters; let us go to the theatre."