“Colonel Clutterbuck, your remarks are positively offensive, and I must entreat you to turn your conversation to something else. I thank you for your offer, but I can never accept it. Come indoors and let me give you a song. I had a parcel of new ones down from London last week.” She drew her lace wrap about her as she spoke, and turned to re-enter the house. Her handsome face looked proud and cold under the moonlight, but her heart was throbbing warmly against Lord Francis Onslow’s card, which she carried in her bosom. She was not really faithful, or affectionate, but she had set her mind upon capturing and holding this man (as a woman sometimes sets her mind upon a spaniel or a bonnet), and would not rest until she had achieved her purpose. In like manner the American Senator had set his mind upon her, but he would not break his heart over her refusal. He had thought she would make a splendid picture at the head of his New York table, and an enviable wife to present to his friends, but if she couldn’t accept his pile of dollars, he concluded that some other lady would. So they parted on their usual terms, and Lucille even asked him to repeat his visit on the first opportunity. The next morning, when her maid brought her letters into her room with her coffee, she was struck by the appearance among them of a pale buff letter, stamped on the top “On H. M. Service,” and on the bottom, “Dead Letter Office.” “What is that, Rose?” she cried. “I do not know, madame, but it was left here with the other letters, so I thought I had better bring it up to you.” Lucille had by this time seized the envelope and read the superscription: “Frank Doggie, Esq., The Grange, Chiddingford, Haslemere.” “How strange,” she laughed. “Who is Mr. Frank Doggie, and why do they send his letters here?” “Shall I return it to the postman, madame?”