Mrs. Fenchurch felt unusually elated: being firmly persuaded that she was about to have the glory and gratification of setting in motion a triumphal drama of real life; and the morning after her return she sought her husband in the smoking-room, generously resolved, that he, too, should have a share in her glorious expectations. Having carefully closed the door, she came and stood by the fire, and said in a low and almost awestruck voice: “_Hugo Blagdon was there, Tom._ I was so surprised!” Her husband put down his pipe, and stared at her stupidly. “Why, what is surprising about him?” “Oh, nothing, except that he is immensely struck with Letty; he as much as told me so.” “Did he, indeed!” sitting erect. “I don’t think my little Letty would suit him at all.” “You will allow, Tom, that he knows best; a man of his age has some idea of the sort of girl he admires by this time!” “Humph!” he grunted, “I have never known him admire a _girl_ yet--it’s always been the married women he runs after.” “That run after him, you mean,” she corrected. “Well, I think he has made up his mind to settle at last.” “I hope to goodness he hasn’t made up his mind to settle on my niece. For one thing, he is twenty years older than she is--if not more--a blasé fellow who has knocked about the world and been his own master (and, by all accounts, a bad one) since he was sixteen. Why the stories about him and Mrs. Corbett--scandalous stories--are common property.” “He is a very good sort--if no saint,” declared his wife. “I know you have a prejudice against him--because the Lumleys don’t like him, and you like the Lumleys; but you cannot deny that he is popular?” “A man with forty thousand a year is bound to be that,” growled her husband. “He is extremely liberal, and subscribes to everything,” continued Mrs. Fenchurch. “I believe Letty would be the most fortunate girl in England, if she was Mrs. Blagdon. He is certainly thinking of marrying--for the place is entailed, and if anything were to happen to him, every acre of the property would go to a cousin in New Zealand, whom he loathes.” “And you think he is going to take a wife, if it is only to spite his cousin, eh, Doodie?” “I think, my dear Tom, that you are in one of your funny tempers this morning--you smoke too much, or you have got a chill on your liver,” and she patted him lightly on the head. “Why, you ought to be enchanted at your niece’s prospects! She is just the sort of little thing that will take to wealth and luxury, like a duck to water.” “Since you go to the poultry-yard for your similes, it’s my opinion, that you are counting your chickens before they are hatched. What has put this ridiculous idea into your head? Has he _said_ anything?” “No--not in so many words--but he is coming over here to lunch on Friday.” “To lunch----for what?” he demanded, and his tone was sharp and inhospitable.