In the Victoria was seated one of the prettiest girls ever beheld by Jones. A lovely creature, dark, with deep, dreamy, vague blue-grey eyes--and a face! Ah, what pen could describe that face, so mobile, piquante, and filled with light and inexpressible charm. She had caught Jones' eye, she was gazing at him curiously, half mirthfully, half wrathfully, it seemed to him, and now to his amazement she made a little movement of the head, as if to say, "come here." At the same moment she spoke to the coachman. "Portman, stop please." Jones advanced, raising his hat. "I just want to tell you," said the Beauty, leaning a little forward, "that you are a silly old ass. Venetia has told me all--It's nothing to me, but don't do it--Portman, drive on." "Good Lord!" said Jones, as the vehicle passed on its way, bearing off its beautiful occupant, of whom nothing could now be seen but the lace covered back of a parasol. He rejoined the unknown. "Well," said the latter, "what has your wife been saying to you?" "My _wife_!" said Jones. "Well, your late wife, though you ain't divorced yet, are you?" "No," said Jones. He uttered the word mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was saying. That lovely creature his wife! Rochester's wife! "Get in," said the unknown. He had called a taxi. Jones got in. Rochester's wife! The contrast between her and Lady Plinlimon suddenly arose before him, together with the folly of Rochester seen gigantically and in a new light. The taxi drew up in a street off Piccadilly; they got out; the unknown paid and led the way into a house, whose front door presented a modest brass door plate inscribed with the words: "MR. CARR" They passed along a passage, and then down stairs to a large room, where small card tables were set out. An extraordinary room, for, occupying nearly half of one side of it stood a kitchen range, over which a cook was engaged broiling chops and kidneys, and all the other elements of a mixed grill. Old fashioned pictures of sporting celebrities hung on the walls, and opposite the range stood a dresser, laden with priceless old fashioned crockery ware. Off this room lay the dining room, and the whole place had an atmosphere of comfort and the days gone by when days were less laborious than our days, and comfort less allied to glitter and tinsel. This was Carr's Club. The unknown sat down before the visitor's book, and began to write his own name and the name of his guest. Jones, looking over his shoulder, saw that his name was Spence, Patrick Spence. Sir Patrick Spence, for one of the attendants addressed him as Sir Patrick. A mixed grill, some cheese and draught beer in heavy pewter tankards, constituted the meal, during which the loquacious Spence kept up the conversation. "I don't want to poke my nose into your affairs," said he, "but I can see there's something worrying you; you're not the same chap. Is it about the wife?" "No," said Jones, "it's not that."