“Can no one explain this mystery?” cried the old Princess Borinsky, as, heavy with fat and diamonds, she hung out of her carriage window. “Oh, there 's Major Scaresby; he is certain to know, if it be anything malicious.” Scaresby was, however, too busy in recounting his news to others to perceive the signals the old Princess held out; and it was only as her chasseur, six feet three of green and gold, bent down to give her Highness's message, that the Major hurried off, in all the importance of a momentary scandal, to the side of her carriage. “Here I am, all impatience. What is it, Scaresby? Tell me quickly,” cried she. “A smash, my dear Princess,--nothing more or less,” said he, in a voice which nature seemed to have invented to utter impertinences, so harsh and grating, and yet so painfully distinct in all its accents,--“as complete a smash as ever I heard of.” “You can't mean that her fortune is in peril?” “I suppose that must suffer also. It is her character--her station as one of us--that's shipwrecked here.” “Go on, go on,” cried she, impatiently; “I wish to hear it all.” “All is very briefly related, then,” said he. “The charming Countess, you remember, ran away with a countryman of mine, young Glencore, of the 8th Hussars; I used to know his father intimately.” “Never mind his father.” “That 's exactly what Glencore did. He came over here and fell in love with the girl, and they ran off together; but they forgot to get married, Princess. Ha--ha--ha!” And he laughed with a cackle a demon could not have rivalled. “I don't believe a word of it,--I'll never believe it,” cried the Princess. “That's exactly what I was recommending to the Mar-quesa Guesteni. I said, you need n't believe it. Why, how do we go anywhere, nowadays, except by 'not believing' the evil stories that are told of our entertainers.” “Yes, yes; but I repeat that this is an infamous calumny. She, a Countess, of a family second to none in all Italy; her father a Grand d'Espagne. I 'll go to her this moment.” “She'll not see you. She has just refused to see La Genori,” said the Major, tartly. “Though, if a cracked reputation might have afforded any sympathy, she might have admitted _her_.” “What is to be done?” exclaimed the Princess, sorrowfully. “Just what you suggested a few moments ago,--don't believe it. Hang me, but good houses and good cooks are growing too scarce to make one credulous of the ills that can be said of their owners.” “I wish I knew what course to take,” muttered the Princess.