It had been a settled thing with Mrs. Prior for years that Josephine, her only child, should marry Paul Wyndham, who, though only a barrister, is still a very rising one, and heir to his grand-uncle, Lord Shangarry. To know Josephine a countess! There lay all the hope, all the ambition, of Mrs. Prior’s life, and the fact that old Lord Shangarry shared her hopes about this matter naturally led to the idea that in time it must be accomplished. If Paul were to offend his uncle, then—well, then, the title would be his indeed; but the enormous income now attached to it, not being entailed, could be left as Lord Shangarry wished. Few people fly in the face of Providence where thousands a year are concerned, and Mrs. Prior depended upon Wyndham’s common-sense to secure him as a husband for her daughter. As for Wyndham, though up to this not a syllable has passed between him and Josephine to bind him to her in any way, he has of late brought himself to believe that a marriage with her, considering the stakes, is not out of the question. She is a handsome girl, too, and as a countess would look the part. Now, as she seats herself beside him, he again acknowledges the beauty of her chiselled nose and chin. But——yes; there is a but. All at once it occurs to him that beauty is very seldom to be found in perfect features. The really artistic face has always one feature quite beyond the bounds of art. Strange that it had not occurred to him before! Still, Josephine is undoubtedly handsome. Josephine’s voice is like her mother’s—clear and very hard. She is talking now. ‘Do you know we were down in your part of the world the other day?’ says she. ‘We were lunching with dear Lady Millbank, and then went on to your cottage. We wanted to get some flowers. You know how mean Lady Millbank is about her roses, so we decided on saying nothing to her, and trusting to your place. But when we got there’—with an elephantine attempt at playfulness—‘the cupboard was bare, at all events to us, because we could not get in.’ ‘Yes, so odd!’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘We rang, and rang, and rang, but no one came for quite a long time. At last your housekeeper appeared, a most disagreeable person, my dear Paul. She was, indeed, almost rude, and said she had your orders to admit nobody.’ She looks back at Wyndham, who looks back at her with an immovable countenance. ‘Not my orders, certainly,’ says he calmly. ‘I was abroad until the other day, you know, so I can hardly be responsible for Mrs. Moriarty’s manœuvres.’ His voice is perfectly even, though a perfect storm of rage against Mrs. Denis is rendering him furious. Confound the woman! what does she mean by seeking to create a scandal out of a mere nothing—a mountain out of a mole-hill? Crosby, glancing at him steadily for a moment, turns his eyes away again, and breaks into the discussion.