agth when
she caught him.'

'Oh, really! a widow?'

'Of course, of course. You don't suppose she's a bigamist even though
he's a fool, do you?' and the eyebrows went up and down in the most
alarming manner. 'The bishop--he was a London curate then--married her
some eight-and-twenty years ago, and I daresay he has repented of it
ever since. They have three children--George' (with a whisk of her fan
at the mention of each name), 'who is a good-looking idiot in a line
regiment; Gabriel, a curate as white-faced as his mother, and no doubt
afflicted as she is with heart trouble. He was in Whitechapel, but his
father put him in a curacy here--it was sheer nepotism. Then there is
Lucy; she is the best of the bunch, which is not saying much. They've
engaged her to young Sir Harry Brace, and now they are giving this
reception to celebrate having inveigled him into the match.'

'Engaged?' sighed the fair Daisy, enviously. 'Oh, do tell me if this
girl is really, really pretty.'

'Humph,' said the eyebrows, 'a pale, washed-out rag of a creature--but
what can you expect from such a mother? No brains, no style, no
conversation; always a simpering, weak-eyed rag baby. Oh, my dear, what
fools men are!'

'Ah, you may well say that, dear Mrs Pansey,' assented the spinster,
thinking wrathfully of this unknown girl who had succeeded where she had
failed. 'Is it a very, very good match?'

'Ten thousand a year and a fine estate, my dear. Sir Harry is a nice
young fellow, but a fool. An absentee landlord, too,' grumbled Mrs
Pansey, resentfully. 'Always running over the world poking his nose into
what doesn't concern him, like the Wandering Jew or the _Flying
Dutchman_. Ah, my dear, husbands are not what they used to be. The late
archdeacon never left his fireside while I was there. I knew better than
to let him go to Paris or Pekin, or some of those sinks of iniquity.
Cook and Gaze indeed!' snorted Mrs Pansey, indignantly; 'I would abolish
them by Act of Parliament. They turn men into so many Satans walking to
and fro upon the earth. Oh, the immorality of these latter days! No
wonder the end of all things is predicted.'

Miss Norsham paid little attention to the latter portion of this
diatribe. As Sir Harry Brace was out of the matrimonial market it
conveyed no information likely to be of use to her in the coming
campaign. She wished to be informed as to the number and the names of
eligible men, and forewarned with regard to possible