hat Belmarana had married
De Pel! It was for her money, of course. Rich as Croesus, and as wicked
as the black man below! as dear papa used to say. By the way, weren't we
talking of Evan? Ah,--yes!'

And so forth. The Countess was immensely admired, and though her sisters
said that she was 'foreignized' overmuch, they clung to her desperately.
She seemed so entirely to have eclipsed tailordom, or 'Demogorgon,' as
the Countess was pleased to call it. Who could suppose this
grand-mannered lady, with her coroneted anecdotes and delicious breeding,
the daughter of that thing? It was not possible to suppose it. It seemed
to defy the fact itself.

They congratulated her on her complete escape from Demogorgon. The
Countess smiled on them with a lovely sorrow.

'Safe from the whisper, my dears; the ceaseless dread? If you knew what I
have to endure! I sometimes envy you. 'Pon my honour, I sometimes wish I
had married a fishmonger! Silva, indeed, is a most excellent husband.
Polished! such polish as you know not of in England. He has a way--a
wriggle with his shoulders in company--I cannot describe it to you; so
slight! so elegant! and he is all that a woman could desire. But who
could be safe in any part of the earth, my dears, while papa will go
about so, and behave so extraordinarily? I was at dinner at your English
embassy a month ago, and there was Admiral Combleman, then on the station
off Lisbon, Sir Jackson Racial's friend, who was the Admiral at Lymport
formerly. I knew him at once, and thought, oh! what shall I do! My heart
was like a lump of lead. I would have given worlds that we might one of
us have smothered the other! I had to sit beside him--it always happens!
Thank heaven! he did not identify me. And then he told an anecdote of
Papa. It was the dreadful old "Bath" story. I thought I should have died.
I could not but fancy the Admiral suspected. Was it not natural? And what
do you think I had the audacity to do? I asked him coolly, whether the
Mr. Harrington he mentioned was not the son of Sir Abraham Harrington, of
Torquay,--the gentleman who lost his yacht in the Lisbon waters last
year? I brought it on myself. 'Gentleman, ma'am,--MA'AM!' says the horrid
old creature, laughing, 'gentleman! he's a ---- I cannot speak it: I choke!'
And then he began praising Papa. Diacho! what I suffered. But, you know,
I can keep my countenance, if I perish. I am a Harrington as much as any
of us!'

And the Countess looked s