In a small drawing-room on the first floor of a house in Stanwick-street, two persons were, one cold morning towards the end of April, seated at a late and very metropolitan-looking breakfast. Of those two persons Colonel Frederick Norcott was one. His outward man, as regarded dress at least, had not improved since last we saw him, some eight months ago, _flânéing_ in the grounds of Danescourt. A short and somewhat nondescript garment, one which might once have done duty as a shooting-jacket, but which had degenerated into a coat of many uses (namely, one that its owner was in the habit of dressing, smoking, and, as in the present instance, breakfasting in) was greasy and out at elbows. The Colonel’s throat, a scraggy one, as is customary with middle-aged gentlemen who “keep their figures,” was exposed, by reason of an open shirt-collar, to view, and as he discontentedly munched, with his still strong teeth, the untempting lodging-house fare provided for him, the expression of the Colonel’s countenance was not precisely what could be called a bright and a “shining morning face” on that warm April day. The “colonial lady,” seated opposite to her lord, and watching the changes of his countenance in hopes to discover therein some sign or token by which to regulate her remarks, was, as I before hinted, a lady of faded and “washed out” appearance (_entre les deux âges_), willing still, as was only natural, to be admired, but swamping all such womanly aspirations in her deep devotion for, and her overweening appreciation of, the man who had honoured her with his empty pockets and his once-respected name. “You sent that letter to the post, of course,” said the Colonel, pushing away his chair from the table, and preparing for some of the unwelcome business of the day. The remark was scarcely an interrogative one, for the master of the Stanwick-street lodging had on the previous day made known to his submissive wife the wish that she should write in his name a certain letter on a certain subject, and it had never occurred to him as possible that Mrs. Norcott could have delayed the duty of attending to his wishes. “Honor will of course answer the letter at once,” continued Fred, “and I should not wonder (let me see, to-day is Wednesday) if she were to be here the end of the week.” Mrs. Norcott, a lady of an habitually pallid complexion, flushed slightly on hearing these remarks. It was not often, to do her justice, that she ventured on independent action, but in the instance alluded to she had been rash enough to arrogate to herself, though in a very mild degree, one of the most valued privileges of her sex. “I am very sorry,” she began, endeavouring to cover her confusion by renewed attentions to the tea-pot; “I thought that you hardly meant it. You spoke in a hurry, and as Mr. Vavasour was here, I could not well ask you whether I _was_ to write or not.” Colonel Norcott rose from his chair impatiently.