“You may make the rest of my life happy, Elizabeth!” I cry. “We are friends of such old—old date, that you know what my disposition is.” “Oh! indeed,” says she, “it is certain that there never was a sweeter disposition or a more gentle creature.” (Somehow I thought she said the words “gentle creature” with rather a sarcastic tone of voice.) “But consider your habits, dear sir. I remember how in Beak Street you used to be always giving, and in spite of your income, always poor. You love ease and elegance; and having, I daresay, not too much for yourself now, would you encumber yourself with—with me and the expenses of a household? I shall always regard you, esteem you, love you as the best friend I ever had, and—_voici venir la mère du vaurien_.” Enter Lady Baker. “Do I interrupt a _tête-à-tête_, pray?” she asks. “My benefactor has known me since I was a child, and befriended me since then,” says Elizabeth, with simple kindness beaming in her look. “We were just speaking—I was just—ah!—telling him that my uncle has invited me most kindly to St. Boniface, whenever I can be spared; and if you and the family go to the Isle of Wight this autumn, perhaps you will intercede with Mr. Lovel, and let me have a little holiday. Mary will take every charge of the children, and I do so long to see my dear aunt and cousins! And I was begging Mr. Batchelor to use his interest with you, and to entreat you to use _your_ interest to get me leave. That was what our talk was about.” The deuce it was! I couldn’t say No, of course; but I protest I had no idea until that moment that our conversation had been about aunt and uncle at St. Boniface. Again came the horrible suspicion, the dreadful doubt—the chill as of a cold serpent crawling down my back—which had made me pause, and gasp, and turn pale, anon when Bessy and Captain Clarence were holding colloquy together. What _has_ happened in this woman’s life? _Do_ I know all about her, or anything; or only just as much as she chooses? O Batch—Batch! I suspect you are no better than an old gaby! “And Mr. Drencher has just been here and seen your son,” Bessy continues, softly; “and he begs and entreats your ladyship to order Captain Baker to be more prudent. Mr. D. says Captain Baker is shortening his life, indeed he is, by his carelessness.” There is Mr. Lovel coming from the city, and the children are running to their papa! And Miss Prior makes her patroness a meek curtsey, and demurely slides away from the room. With a sick heart I say to myself, “She has been—yes—humbugging is the word—humbugging Lady B. Elizabeth! Elizabeth! can it be possible thou art humbugging _me_ too?” Before Lovel enters, Bedford rapidly flits through the room. He looks as pale as a ghost. His face is awfully gloomy. “Here’s the governor come,” Dick whispers to me. “It must all come hout now—out, I beg your pardon. So she’s caught _you_, has she? I thought she would.” And he grins a ghastly grin.