I don't know how I am to get clear of my present entanglement; and yet if I am to fall in with Mrs. Chadwick's views, and propose to Eleanor, of course it must be done somehow. This picture,' he continued, turning back to the easel, 'reminds me uncommonly of Margaret. It has just her broad brow and queenly air; just her flashing eyes, and they will flash like the deuce when she hears what I am going to do. I wish I had never made her acquaintance. I was uncommonly proud of her at first, and used to like to be seen everywhere with her; but when that kind of thing is beginning, one never imagines or chooses to think what the end of it is to be. I have a strong idea, too, that Mrs. Chadwick has her suspicions in that direction. The persistent way in which she talked to me about the Hamblins last night--asking why they remained in town, and what was their probable destination when they left--could not have been mere chance work. She is, however, too much a woman of the world to allow an intrigue that was past and dead to interfere with my marriage with her sister, but would be sure to convince herself that it was very dead indeed before she sanctioned such a step. She is a very clear-sighted woman, whom one could not possibly hoodwink about such a matter, and I must therefore take some very decisive step with regard to Margaret.' Mr. Spiridion Pratt's soliloquy was interrupted by the opening of the door; Gaetano appeared ushering in a lady. 'No, madame,' he said, 'I was mistaken; the master has not returned. Here is a signor who is still awaiting him--a signor who is, I think, known to madame.' And the valet retired at once, closing the door carefully behind him. 'O, how do you do, Mrs. Hamblin?' said Spiridion Pratt, with very crimson cheeks and a rather shaking hand, rising to greet the lady. A tall handsome woman of some eight-and-thirty years old, with bold black eyes and soft creamy complexion, very dark chestnut hair, and full scarlet lips. A majestic-looking woman, with a splendid figure, whose walk, without any absurd exaggeration, was stately, and whose every pose was perfect. She was dressed in a morning-gown of thick linen, fringed with handsome work, and set off with a blue sash; her bonnet was very plain, of white straw, with white and blue feathers in it. A physiognomist looking at her would have told you that she could experience passion but not love, and that she was an unhappy woman, proud, scornful, and conscious of being misunderstood. She put out her hand indeed, but advanced towards Spiridion with uplifted eyebrows and with something of a pained expression in her face. 'Why this formality, Tito?' she asked. 'I was not aware that I was guilty of any,' said Mr. Pratt, on whose cheeks the colour still remained. 'You know my Christian name; why do you not call me by it?'