With all this, he did n't like his mother to see how much this gratified or interested him; and he tossed the letter to one side, and said, “I hope the dinner isn't far off; I'm very hungry.” “It will be on the table in a few minutes, Tony; but let us hear what Her Majesty wants with you.” “It's nothing that won't keep till I have eaten my dinner, mother; at all events, I don't mean to inquire.” “I suppose I may break the seal myself, then,” said she, in a half-pique. “If you like,--if you have any curiosity in the matter.” “That I have,” said she, tearing open the envelope. “Why, it's nothing, after all, Tony. It's not from Her Majesty at all. It begins 'Dear Butler.'” “It's from Skeffy,” cried he, taking it from her hands, “and is far more interesting to me than if it came from the Premier.” Mrs. Butler sat down, disappointed and sad. It was a reminiscence of long ago, that formally shaped document, with its big seal, reminding her of days when the Colonel--her Colonel--used to receive despatches from the War Office,--grave documents of which he seldom spoke, but whose importance she could read in the thoughtful lines of his face, and which always impressed her with his consequence. “Ah, dear!” sighed she, drearily, “who would have thought it?” So is it very often in this same world of ours, that the outsides of things are only solemn cheats. The orderly, who terrifies the village as he dashes past at speed, is but the bearer of an invitation to dine. The ambassador's bag is filled not with protocols and treaties, but with fish-sauce or pickled walnuts; the little sack--marked “most important”--being choke-full of Russian cigarettes. Even lawn and lawyers' wigs are occasionally the external coverings to qualities that fall short of absolute wisdom; so that though Mrs. Butler exclaimed, “Who would have thought it?” one more conversant with life would have felt less surprise and less disappointment. A laugh from Tony--almost a hearty laugh--startled her from her musings. “What is it, Tony dear?” asked she,--“what is it that amuses you?” “I'll read it all for you, mother. It's from Skeffy, and you 'd think you heard him talking, it's so like him. “'F. O., Sunday morning. “'Dear Butler,--What a fright you have given us all, old fellow, to have levanted so suddenly, leaving your traps with the waiter, as we first thought, but, as we afterwards discovered, exchanging them with one Rory Quin, who, apparently sorry for his bargain, came for three successive mornings to the hotel to find out your present whereabouts.' “Do you understand him, mother?” asked Tony at this. “Partly,--go on.” He resumed: “'Rory, however, would seem to have a private scrape of his own to occupy him now, for I found to-day that a policeman was waiting all the morning to arrest him, of which he seems to have had timely notice, for he did not appear, and “R. 960” says, with much solemnity, “he won't come no more."'” “What does that mean, Tony?”