eason, apparently, for extinguishing Mr. Graythorpe
_in toto_, and she remained Sally Graythorpe.

Miss Graythorpe was, at a guess, about fifteen when her stepfather
died. Her mother, now for the second time a widow, must have been
very comfortably off, as she had an income of her own as well as a
life-interest in her late husband's invested savings, which was
unfettered by any conditions as to her marrying again, or otherwise.
She was not long in availing herself of this liberty; for about the
time when her daughter was of an age to be engaged on her own account,
she accepted a third offer of marriage--this time from a clergyman,
who, like herself, had already stood by the death-beds of two former
mates, and was qualified to sympathize with her in every way,
including comfortable inheritances.

But the young Sally Graythorpe kicked furiously against this new
arrangement. It was an insult to papa (she referred to Mr.
Nightingale; her real papa was a negligible factor), and she wouldn't
live in the same house with that canting old hypocrite. She would go
away straight to India, and marry Gerry--_he_ would be glad enough to
have her--see how constant the dear good boy had been! Not a week
passed but she got a letter. She asked her mother flatly what could
she want to marry again for at her time of life? And such a withered
old sow-thistle as that! Sub-dean, indeed! She would _sub-dean_ him!
In fact, there were words, and the words almost went the length of
taking the form known as "language" _par excellence_. The fact is,
this Sally and her mother never _did_ get on together well; it wasn't
the least like her subsequent relation with our special Sally--Sally
number three--who trod on Mr. Fenwick in the Twopenny Tube.

The end of the "words" was a letter to Gerry, a liberal trousseau,
and a first-class passage out by P. and O. The young lady's luggage
for the baggage-room was beautifully stencilled "Care of Sir Oughtred
Penderfield, The Residency, Khopal." Perfectly safe in his keeping no
doubt it would have been. But, then, that might have been true also of
luggage if consigned to the Devil. If the tale hinted at in our last
chapter _was_ true, its poor little headstrong, inexperienced heroine
would have been about as safe with the latter.

Anyhow, this club gossip supplies all the broad outline of the story;
and it is a story we need not dwell on. It gives us no means of
reconciling the like of the Mrs. Nightingale w