But she did: a handsome little carriage that came down from Long Acre, and was sent round to the stables, where Cora Dean's ponies were put up and kept now on a shorter allowance of corn. The note was a simple one, written in a very large hand that was decidedly shaky. There was a coronet on the top, and its owner, Lord Carboro', begged Miss Dean's acceptance of the little gift, with his sorrow that he was the cause of the mishap, and his congratulations that she was not hurt. This was all very refined and in accordance with etiquette. The postscript looked crotchety. "P.S.--Tell your people not to give them so much corn." Cora did so, and said that she should drive out to show the people of Saltinville that she was no coward. "Then I'll go with you, Betsy," said Mrs Dean, "to show 'em I ain't, too: and, you mark my words, this'll be the making of you in society." So Cora took her drives as of old, found that she was very much noticed by the gentlemen, very little by the ladies, but waited her time. The Deans lodged at one of the best houses in the Parade--a large, double-fronted place facing the sea, with spacious balcony and open hall door, and porch ornamented with flowers. The little groom sprang down and ran to the ponies' heads as his mistress alighted, and after sweeping her rich dress aside, held out her hand for her mother, who got out of the carriage slowly, and in what was meant for a very stately style, her quick beady eyes having shown her that the windows on either side of the front door were wide open, while her sharp ears and her nose had already given her notice that the lodgers were at home--a low buzzing mellow hum with a wild refrain in high notes, announcing that old Mr Linnell was at work with his violoncello to his son's violin, and a faint penetrating perfume--or smell, according to taste--suggesting that Colonel Mellersh was indulging in a cigar. Mrs Dean's daughter was quite as quick in detecting these signs, and, raising her head and half closing her eyes, she swept gracefully into the house, unconscious of the fact that Richard Linnell drew back a little from the window on one side of the door, and that Colonel Mellersh showed his teeth as he lay back in his chair beside a small table, on which was a dealt-out pack of cards. "I should like to poison that old woman," said the Colonel, gathering together the cards. "I wish Mr Barclay had let the first floor to some one else, Richard," said a low pleasant voice from the back of the room. _P-r-r-rm, Pr-um_! The speaker did not say _Pr-r-rm, Pr-um_! That sound was produced by an up and down draw of the bow across the fourth string of the old violoncello he held between his legs, letting the neck of the instrument with its pegs fall directly after into the hollow of his arm, as he picked up a cake of amber-hued transparent rosin from the edge of a music stand, and began thoughtfully to rub it up and down the horse-hair of the bow.