’Twas impossible to get away from the thing. ’Twas sung and hummed and bawled and shouted wherever you went from St. James’s to St. Giles’s. The town seethed with stories of how Sir Robert Walpole, attending it and hearing an allusion that pinched him, cried out jovially (seeing all the house watching him), “Again, again! A roaring good song. I insist it be repeated”—and so spoilt the malice intended. But indeed the town talked of nothing else in one form or another, and poor Mr. Handel and his stately and harmonious operas languished on the shelf with the dust gathering upon ’em. The sprightly _olla podrida_ of songs in the other swept all before it. But when her company was gone, my Lady Fanny sat staring into the fire thinking thoughts she would not have known for the world. She had learnt one particular that might furnish a clue in the maze—namely that my Lord and the Duke of Bolton were now seldom together. The Duchess she dared not approach. A slap in the face from that white but powerful hand was as likely a finish to what her Grace might consider impertinence as any other. But Bolton——! A lady may count on a courteous answer from a gentleman she knows and honours, whether he reveal the truth or no. She had therefore writ him the sweetest little perfumed billet requesting his company next day. As an old friend. He came. He had a sincere liking for her—and likings with the Duke were a kind of fidelity. So behold the pair seated—the lady graver than she dared or cared to be with her own sex, but keenly on the alert. No need to record the beginning of the talk while she manœuvred him steadily nearer and nearer to the point. She had herself never seen the Inconstant since the day of the water-party save in the distance—a circumstance so singular and cruel that it might well excuse her anxiety. Indeed she was unfairly used! It came at last to the point. She knew her man. She was candid with him. “Your Grace, I have a question to ask you, and I ask the favour that it may lie between you and me only. For ’tis an uncommon question, I know.” “Madam, your Ladyship’s command honours me and shall be faithfully obeyed. ’Tis a distinction to share a secret with you.” He observed her face to be anxious—a very unaccustomed expression with one so gay, and looked kindly upon her. “I would I knew this, your Grace. Why is the friendship between you and my Lord Baltimore lessened?” The attack was so sudden that he flinched. “Surely, Madam——” “I know, I know ’tis a most unconscionable question. I am ashamed as I ask it. But I am no stranger to your kind heart, and when I remind your Grace that I have no father, husband or brother to protect me and that my marriage was miserable, I trust you will see I am driven to a self-protection that happier women have unasked from the gentlemen of their family.” ’Twas beautifully said however felt, and the little break in the sweet voice perfection. It moved the Duke.