know our sex and may despise it! I
could preach them a lesson. Those men might as well not believe in the
steadfastness of the very stars because one or two are reported lost out
of the firmament, and now and then we behold a whole shower of fragments
descending. The truth is, they have taken a stain from the life they
lead, and are troubled puddles, incapable of clear reflection. To listen
to the tattle of a chatting little slut, and condemn the whole sex upon
her testimony, is a nice idea of justice. Many of the gentlemen present
became notorious as woman-scorners, whether owing to Countess Fanny or
other things. Lord Levellier was, and Lord Fleetwood, the wicked man!
And certainly the hearing of naughty stories of us by the light of
a grievous and vexatious instance of our misconduct must produce an
impression. Countess Fanny's desperate passion for a man of the age of
Kirby struck them as out of nature. They talked of it as if they could
have pardoned her a younger lover.

All that Lord Cressett said, on the announcement of the flight of his
wife, was: 'Ah! Fan! she never would run in my ribbons.'

He positively declined to persue. Lord Levellier would not attempt to
follow her up without him, as it would have cost money, and he wanted
all that he could spare for his telescopes and experiments. Who, then,
was the gentleman who stopped the chariot, with his three mounted
attendants, on the road to the sea, on the heath by the great
Punch-Bowl?

That has been the question for now longer than half a century, in fact
approaching seventy mortal years. No one has ever been able to say for
certain.

It occurred at six o'clock on the summer morning. Countess Fanny must
have known him,--and not once did she open her mouth to breathe his
name. Yet she had no objection to talk of the adventure and how Simon
Fettle, Captain Kirby's old ship's steward in South America, seeing
horsemen stationed on the ascent of the high road bordering the Bowl,
which is miles round and deep, made the postillion cease jogging, and
sang out to his master for orders, and Kirby sang back to him to look to
his priming, and then the postillion was bidden proceed, and he did not
like it, but he had to deal with pistols behind, where men feel weak,
and he went bobbing on the saddle in dejection, as if upon his very
heart he jogged; and soon the fray commenced. There was very little
parleying between determined men.

Simon Fettle was a plain kindly