Upon receiving this telegram at night, before a lonely dinner, Mrs. Eustace Greyne was deeply moved. She felt she had been hasty. She knew that to very few women was it given to have a husband so free from all masculine infirmities as Mr. Greyne. At the same time there was “Catherine,” there was the mansion in Park Lane, there was the Venezuelan millionaire. She began to feel distracted, and, for the first time in her life, refused to partake of sweetbreads fried in mushroom ketchup, a dish which she had greatly affected from the time when she wrote her first short story. While she was in the very act of waving away this delicacy a footman came in with a foreign telegram. She opened it quickly, and read as follows:— British consul horrified; was ignominiously expelled from consulate; great scandal; am much upset, but will never give in, for your sake. +Eustace.+ As the dread meaning of these words penetrated at length to Mrs. Greyne’s voluminous brain a deep flush overspread her noble features. She rose from the table with a determination that struck awe to the hearts of the powdered underlings, and, drawing herself up to her full height, exclaimed: “Send Mrs. Forbes at once to my study, if you please—at once, do you understand?” In a moment Mrs. Forbes, who was the great novelist’s maid, appeared on the threshold of the oracle’s lair. She was a sober-looking, black-silk personage, who always wore a pork-pie cap in the house, and a Mother Hubbard bonnet out of it. Having been in service with Mrs. Greyne ever since the latter penned her last minor poetry—Mrs. Greyne had been a minor poet for three years soon after she put her hair up—Mrs. Forbes had acquired a certain literary expression of countenance and a manner that was decidedly prosy. She read a good deal after her supper of an evening, and was wont to be the arbiter when any literary matter was discussed in the servants’ hall. “Madam?” she said, respectfully entering the room, and bending the pork-pie cap forward in an attentive attitude. Mrs. Greyne was silent for a moment. She appeared to be thinking deeply. Mrs. Forbes gently closed the door, and sighed. It was nearly her supper-time, and she felt pensive. “Madam?” she said again. Mrs. Greyne looked up. A strange fire burned in her large eyes. “Mrs. Forbes,” she said at length, with weighty deliberation, “the mission of woman in the world is a great one.” “Very true, madam. My own words to Butler Phillips no longer ago than dinner this midday.” “It is the protecting of man—neither more nor less.” “My own statement, madam, to Second Footman Archibald this self-same day at the tea-board.” “Man needs guidance, and looks for it to us—or rather to me.” At the last word Mrs. Forbes pinched her lips together, and appeared older than her years and sourer than her normal temper.