“I don't know how he wrote to you, but his letters to me, I will say that, were quite as nice as anything Frank could write. You needn't toss your head, you are not Lady Mount Rorke yet.” Sally refused to hear, but presently, seeing a cloud on her sister's face, and thinking the letter contained some piece of unpleasantness, she relented, and pressed her to continue. “The house is full of people--people whom I have known all my life--and they make a great deal of me. I have to tell them about Italy, and they ask me absurd questions about Michael Angelo or Titian, Leonardo or Watteau.... The house party is a large one, and we have people to dinner every day; and in the evening the drawing-room, with its grim oak and escutcheons and rich modern furniture, is a pretty sight indeed. There is a lady here whom I knew in London, Lady Seveley; and I have had suspicions that Mount Rorke would like me to marry her. But she has the reputation of being rather fast, so perhaps the old gentleman is allowing his thoughts to wander where they should not. I hope not for his sake, for I hear she is devoted to a young Irishman, a Mr. Fletcher, a journalist in London. I met them at Reading once in most suspicious circumstances. He is the son of a large grazier, one of my uncle's tenants, and she is, I suppose, so infatuated that she could not resist the temptation of calling on his family. She was careful not to speak of her intentions to anybody, but waited until she got a favourable opportunity and slipped off to pay her visit. The Fletchers live about half a mile from the castle. I was riding that way, and met her coming out of their house. I got off my horse and walked back together. I hope Mount Rorke will not hear of her ladyship's escapade; he would be very angry, for the Fletchers are people who would be asked to have something to eat in the housekeeper's room if they called at the Castle. In London one knows everybody, but in the country we are more conservative.” “I hope she won't cut you out,” said Sally. “It would be a sell for you if she did. Go on.” “No, I shan't, you are too insulting.” “Who began it? You told me that I didn't get such nice letters as you. Pray go on.” “I do not know if you would think her handsome. I don't. She is, however, an excellent musician; we play duets together every evening, to Mount Rorke's intense delight. You know my dialogue between a lady and a gentleman? She has written it down for me and corrected a few mistakes; I think I shall publish it. Darling, I love you better than any one in the world; you are all the world to me; try to love me a little--you will never find any one to love you as I do.” “Well, you can't find anything peculiarly disagreeable to say about that, I think.” Extract from another letter:--