ow," said Beecher, clapping him familiarly on the
shoulder, "I wish you had n't told Georgy all that stuff about Davis;
these things do no good."

"I assure you solemnly, my Lord, I said it with the best motives; her
Ladyship would certainly learn the whole history somewhere, and so I
thought I 'd just sketch the thing off in a light, easy way."

"Come, come, Spicer,--no gammon, my lad; you never tried any of your
light, easy ways with _my_ sister-in-law. At all events, it's done,
and can't be undone now," sighed he, drearily. Then, after a moment, he
added, "How did she take the news?"

"Well, at first, my Lord, she wouldn't believe it, but went on, 'She's
not his wife, sir; I tell you they're not married,' and so on."

"Well,--and then?"

"Then, my Lord, I assured her that there could be no doubt of the
matter; that your Lordship had done me the honor of presenting me--"

"Which I never did, Master Spicer," laughed in Beecher,--"you know well
enough that I never did; but a fib won't choke you, old fellow."

"At all events, I made it clear that you were really married, and to the
daughter of a man that would send you home on a shutter if you threw any
doubt on it."

"Wouldn't he, by Jupiter!" exclaimed Beecher, with all the sincerity of
a great fact "Well, after _that_, how did she take on?"

"She did n't say a word, but rocked from side to side, this way,--like
one going to faint; and, indeed, her color all went, and she was pale as
a corpse; and then she took long breaths, and muttered below her voice,
'This is worst of all!' After that she rallied, and certainly gave it to
your Lordship in round style, but always winding it up with, 'Break
it he shall, and must, if it was the Archbishop of Canterbury married
them.'"

"Very fine talking, Master Spicer, but matrimony is a match where
you can't scratch and pay forfeits. I wish you could," muttered he to
himself. "I wish you had the presence of mind and the pluck to have
told her that it was _my_ affair, and not _hers_. As to the honor of the
Lackingtons and all that lot, she is n't a Lackington any more than you
are,--she 's a De Tracey; good blood, no better, but she isn't one of
us, and you ought to have told her so."

"I own I 'd not have had courage for that!" said Spicer, candidly.

"That's what I'd have said in your place, Spicer. The present Viscount
Lackington is responsible to himself, and not to the late Lord's widow;
and, what's more, he is no