"Your little dog, I presume, is of a very rare sort," said Mr. Tatham, to be civil. He had proposed the bride and bridegroom's health in a most appropriate speech, and he felt that he had deserved well of his kind, which made him more amiable even than usual. "Your ladyship's little dog," he added, after a moment, as she did not take any notice, "I presume, is of a rare kind?" Lady Mariamne gave him a look, or rather a stare. "Is Puggy of a rare sort?" she said over her shoulder, to one of the attendant tribe. "Don't be such a duffer, Jew! You know as well as any one what breed he's of," Harry Compton said. "Oh, I forgot," said the fine lady. She was standing full in front of the entrance, keeping Mrs. Dennistoun in the full sun outside. "I hope there's a train very soon," she said. "Did you look, Algy, as I told you? If it hadn't been that Phil would have killed me I should have gone now. It would have been such fun to have spied upon the turtle doves!" The men thought it would have been rare fun with obedient delight, but that Phil would have cut up rough, and made a scene. At this Lady Mariamne held up her finger, and made a portentous face. "Oh, you naughty, naughty boy," she cried, "telling tales out of school." "Perhaps, my dear lady," said Mr. Tatham, quietly, "you would let Mrs. Dennistoun pass." "Oh!" said Lady Mariamne, and stared at him again for half a minute; then she turned and stared at the tall lady in grey satin. "Anybody can pass," she said: "I'm not so very big." "That is quite true--quite true. There is plenty of room," said the little gentleman, holding out his hand to his cousin. "My dear John," said Mrs. Dennistoun, "I am sure you will be kind enough to lend your carriage again to Lady Mariamne, who is in a hurry to get away. There is another train, which stops at Downforth station, in half an hour, and there will just be time to get there, if you will order it at once. I told your man to be in readiness: and it would be a thousand pities to lose this train, for there is not another for an hour." "By Jove, Jew! there's a slap in the face for you," said, in an audible whisper, one of the train, who had been standing in front of all the friends, blocking out the view. As for Lady Mariamne, she stared more straight than ever into Mrs. Dennistoun's eyes, but for the moment did not seem to find anything to say. She was left in the hall with her band while the mistress of the house went into the drawing-room, followed by all the country ladies, who had not lost a word, and who were already whispering to each other over that terrible betrayal about the temper of Phil. "Cut up rough! Oh! poor little Elinor, poor little Elinor!" the ladies said to each other under their breath.