"Then I'll trouble yez to listen to this." She read as follows:-- "My Dear Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, When last you left me I prayed that we might never meet again. But time is stronger than I fancied, and here I am writing to you. Fate must have been in her most ironical mood to bring us so near in this corner of the world. I thought you were in another continent; but if you will let me accept the chance which brings us together, and call upon you as an old friend, I shall really be grateful: for there will be much to talk about, even if we avoid, as I promise to do, all that is painful; and I am very lonely. I have seen your husband, and hope you are very happy.--Believe me, very sincerely yours, Philip Fogo." "What does it mean?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys helplessly. "It means, Nellie, that we have just time enough, and none to spare; in other words, that 'Goodwyn-Sandys' has come near to being a confoundedly fatal--" "Then he must have known--" "Known! My treasure, where are your wits? Beautiful namesake-- jilted lover--'hence, perjured woman'--bleeding heart--years pass-- marry another--finger of fate--Good Lord!" wound up the Honourable Frederic. "I met the fellow one day, and couldn't understand why he stared so--gave me the creeps--see it all now." He lay back in his chair and whistled. There was a tap at the drawing-room door, and the buttoned youth announced that Mrs. Buzza was without, and earnestly begged an interview with Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. The Honourable Frederic obligingly retired to smoke, and the visitor was shown in. Her appearance was extraordinary. Her portly figure shook; her eyes were red; her bonnet, rakishly poised over the left eye, had dragged askew the "front" under it, as though its wearer had parted her hair on one side in a distracted moment. A sob rent her bosom as she entered. "My poor soul!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "you are in trouble." Mrs. Buzza tried to speak, but dropped into a chair and nodded instead. "What _is_ the matter?" "It's--it's _him_." "The Admiral?" Mrs. Buzza mopped her eyes and nodded again. "What has he done now?" "S-said his bu-bu-breakfast was cold this mo-horning, and p-pitched the bu-bu-breakfast set over the quay-door," she moaned. "Oh! w-what shall I do?" "Leave him!" Mrs. Buzza clasped her hands and stared. "You could see the m-marks quite plain," she wailed. "What! Did he strike you?" "I mean, on the bo-bottom of the c-cups. They were real W-worcester." "Leave him! Oh! I have no patience," and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys stamped her little foot, "with you women of Troy. Will you always be dolls-- dolls with a painted smile for all man's insane caprices? Will you never--?" "I don't paint," put in Mrs. Buzza feebly. "Revolt, I say! Leave him this very night! Oh! if I could--"