“Silly fellow! Did you expect me to send you invitations and leave cards on you, who are one of ourselves? Come to-morrow to dinner. Your uncle the Bishop will be there; and you will see nearly all the family besides. You cannot plead that you have not been invited now. Will you come?” “No. I cant stand the Bishop. Besides, I have taken to dining in the middle of the day.” “Come after dinner, then?” “Mamma,” said Constance, peevishly, “can’t you see that he does not want to come at all? What is the use of persecuting him?” “No, I assure you,” said Marmaduke. “It’s only the Bishop I object to. I’ll come after dinner, if I can.” “And pray what is likely to prevent you?” said the Countess. “Devilment of some sort, perhaps,” he replied. “Since you have all given me a bad name, I dont see why I should make any secret of earning it.” The Countess smiled slyly at him, implying that she was amused, but must not laugh at such a sentiment in Constance’s presence. Then, turning so as to give the rest of the conversation an air of privacy, she whispered, “I must tell you that you no longer have a bad name. It is said that your wild oats are all sown, and I will answer for it that even the Bishop will receive you with open arms.” “And dry my repentant tears on his apron, the old hypocrite,” said Marmaduke, speaking rather more loudly than before. “Well, we must be trotting. We are going to the South Kensington Museum—to improve our minds.” “Why, that is where we are going; at least, Constance is. She is going to work at her painting while I pay a round of visits. Wont you come with us?” “Thank you: I’d rather walk. A man should have gloves and a proper hat for your sort of travelling.” “Nonsense! you look very nice. Besides, it is only down the Brompton Road.” “The worst neighborhood in London to be seen in with me. I know all sorts of queer people down Brompton way. I should have to bow to them if we met; and that wouldnt do before _her_,”—indicating Constance, who was conversing with Douglas. “You are incorrigible: I give you up. Good-bye, and dont forget to-morrow evening.” “I wonder,” said Marmaduke, as the carriage drove off, “what she’s saying about me to Constance now.” “That you are the rudest man in London, perhaps.” “Serve her right! I hate her. I have got so now that I can’t stand that sort of woman. You see her game, dont you; she can’t get Constance off her hands; and she thinks there’s a chance of me still. How well she knows about the governor’s state of health! And Conny, too, grinning at me as if we were the best friends in the world. If that girl had an ounce of spirit she would not look on the same side of the street with me.”