it might be noticed, they seemed to agree now rarely to mention. As for
the rest, there was nobody to call upon in the delightful hours between
official duties and dinner. No Lady Roehampton now, no brilliant
Berengaria, and not even the gentle Imogene with her welcome smile.
He looked in at the Coventry Club, a club of fashion, and also much
frequented by diplomatists. There were a good many persons there, and a
foreign minister immediately buttonholed the Under-Secretary of State.

"I called at the Foreign Office to-day," said the foreign minister. "I
assure you it is very pressing."

"I had the American with me," said Endymion, "and he is very lengthy.
However, as to your business, I think we might talk it over here, and
perhaps settle it." And so they left the room together.

"I wonder what is going to happen to that gentleman," said Mr. Ormsby,
glancing at Endymion, and speaking to Mr. Cassilis.

"Why?" replied Mr. Cassilis, "is anything up?"

"Will he marry Lady Montfort?"

"Poh!" said Mr. Cassilis.

"You may poh!" said Mr. Ormsby, "but he was a great favourite."

"Lady Montfort will never marry. She had always a poodle, and always
will have. She was never so _liee_ with Ferrars as with the Count of
Ferroll, and half a dozen others. She must have a slave."

"A very good mistress with thirty thousand a year."

"She has not that," said Mr. Cassilis doubtingly.

"What do you put Princedown at?" said Mr. Ormsby.

"That I can tell you to a T," replied Mr. Cassilis, "for it was offered
to me when old Rambrooke died. You will never get twelve thousand a year
out of it."

"Well, I will answer for half a million consols," said Ormsby, "for my
lawyer, when he made a little investment for me the other day, saw the
entry himself in the bank-books; our names are very near, you know--M,
and O. Then there is her jointure, something like ten thousand a year."

"No, no; not seven."

"Well, that would do."

"And what is the amount of your little investment in consols altogether,
Ormsby?"

"Well, I believe I top Montfort," said Mr. Ormsby with a complacent
smile, "but then you know, I am not a swell like you; I have no land."

"Lady Montfort, thirty thousand a year," said Mr. Cassilis musingly.
"She is only thirty. She is a woman who will set the Thames on fire,
but she will never marry. Do you dine to-day, by any chance, with Sidney
Wilton?"

When Endymion returned home this evening, he found a letter from La