the Major, stirring his chocolate fiercely. "You'll lose,
Vane; Calceolaria will come to my stables as sure as this mouthpiece is
made of amber. Whenever this scheming little actress changes her name,
it sha'n't be to the same cognomen as mine. I say, it's getting deuced
warm--one must begin to go somewhere. What do you say to going abroad
till the 12th? I've got three months' leave--that will give me one away,
and two on the moor. Will you go?"

"Yes, if you like; town's emptying gradually, and it is confoundedly
hot. Where shall it be?--Naples--Paris----"

"Paris in July! Heaven forbid! Why, it would be worse than London in
November. By Jove! I'll tell you where: let's go to Essellau."

"And where may that be? Somewhere in the Arctic regions, I hope, for
I've spent half my worldly possessions already in sherry and seltzer and
iced punch, and if I go where it's warmer still, I shall be utterly
beggared."

"Essellau is in Swabia, as you ought to know by this, you Goth. It's
Marc von Edenburgh's place, and a very jolly place, too, I can tell you;
the sport's first-rate there, and the pig-sticking really splendid. He's
just written to ask me to go, and take any fellows I like, as he's got
some English people--some friends of his mother's. (A drawback that--I
wonder who they are.) Will you come, Vane? I can promise you some fun,
if only at the trente-et-quarante tables in Pipesandbeersbad."

"Oh yes, I'll come," said I. "I hope the English won't be some horrid
snobs he's picked up at some of the balls, who'll be scraping
acquaintance with us when we come back."

"No fear," said Telfer; "Marc's as English as you or I, and knows the
good breed when he sees them. He'd keep as clear of the Smith, Brown,
and Robinson style as we should. It's settled, then, you'll come. All
right! I wish I could settle that confounded Violet, too, first. I hope
nothing will happen while I'm in Essellau. I don't think it can. The
Tressillian leaves town to-day with the Carterets, and the governor must
stick here till parliament closes, and it's sure to be late this year."

With which consolatory reflection the Major rose, stretched himself,
yawned, sighed, stroked his moustache, fitted on his lavender gloves,
and rang to order his tilbury round.

Telfer was an only son, and when he heard it reported that his father
intended to give him a _belle-mere_ in a young lady as attractive as she
was poor, who, if she caught him, would probably ma