One morning, when one of those opaque yellow fogs which visit London in the early days of November had settled down like a pall over the metropolis, when gas was lighted in the shops, and locomotion rendered next to impossible, Mrs. Hamblin sat in her boudoir in rather a dejected frame of mind. The utter ghastliness of the weather would have been alone sufficient to account for that, but there were other causes. Mrs. Hamblin had become thoroughly sick of London; the letters received each morning from her friends spoke of pleasant times in country houses, where hunting and shooting parties were assembled, and made her long for escape from the dead dull monotony of empty streets and deserted houses to which, for the first time in her life during this season of the year, she had for three months been relegated. She was, moreover, excessively annoyed at having to confess to herself the fact that it was wholly her own fault; that she had no one but herself to blame for the weariness she had undergone. It was true that circumstances had prevented Mr. Hamblin from taking his official holiday at the usual time, but that was no reason why she should have remained in town; they had managed before now to get on very comfortably without seeing each other for three or four months, and indeed when domesticated under the same roof they met but seldom; for Mr. Hamblin, away from his office, was a bibliomaniac, spending most of his time in hunting up rare editions and curious copies, surrounded by which musty old tomes he would sit for hours in his library, perfectly content in looking at his book-treasures, and not taking the slightest notice of whatever fun or festivity might be going on in other portions of the house. So that it was not entirely on her husband's account Mrs. Hamblin had refused the numerous invitations which she had received to stay with friends, and had given up her usual visit to Hombourg. If Spiridion Pratt had been an intending guest at any of the country houses to which she was invited, or had been going, according to custom, to the German spas, assuredly Mrs. Hamblin would not have chosen to immure herself in Cumberland-place during the autumn months; but he, to whom anything like a change was most welcome, even though it involved flying in the face of all conventional and set rules, had determined to see whether London was really habitable in September, and as he had decided upon staying in town, Mrs. Hamblin had concluded it was better she should remain there also. Not that the feeling, which had always been rather a caprice than a passion, which she had at one time entertained for the dilettante little man had not passed away; but her pride was touched at the notion of his escaping her so easily, at his attempt to slip from his bonds without giving her the notice to which she had been accustomed in such cases, and she thought it would be actually worth while to attempt to bring him back into slavery. The season of the