word
about it. There had been talk of his going to Canada, and much chaff
upon that subject--so ridiculous, Tancred emigrating! But of a
prospective bride the most gossip-loving busybody at White's had never
heard! It fell like a bombshell. And Lady Highford, as she read the
news, clenched her pointed teeth, and gave a little squeal like a stoat.

So he had drifted beyond her, after all! He had often warned her he
would, at the finish of one of those scenes she was so fond of creating.
It was true then, when he had told her before Cowes that everything must
be over. She had thought his silence since had only been sulking! But
who was the creature? "Countess Shulski." Was it a Polish or Hungarian
name? "Daughter of the late Maurice Grey." Which Grey was that? "Niece
of Francis Markrute, Esquire, of Park Lane." Here was the reason--money!
How disgusting men were! They would sell their souls for money. But the
woman should suffer for this, and Tristram, too, if she could manage it!

Then she wept some tears of rage. He was so adorably good looking and
had been such a feather in her cap, although she had never been really
sure of him. It was a mercy her conduct had always been of such an
immaculate character--in public--no one could say a word. And now she
must act the dear, generous, congratulating friend.

So she had a dose of sal volatile and dressed, with extra care, to lunch
at Glastonbury House. There she might hear all the details; only
Ethelrida was so superior, and uninterested in news or gossip.

There was a party of only five assembled, when she arrived--she was
always a little late. The Duke and Lady Ethelrida, Constance Radcliffe,
and two men: an elderly politician, and another cousin of the family.
She could certainly chatter about Tristram, and hear all she could.

They were no sooner seated than she began:

"Is not this wonderful news about your nephew, Duke? No one expected it
of him just now, though I as one of his best friends have been urging
him to marry, for the last two years. Dear Lady Tancred must be so
enchanted."

"I am sure you gave him good counsel," said the Duke, screwing his
eyeglass which he wore on a long black ribbon into his whimsical old
blue eye. "But Tristram's a tender mouth, and a bit of a bolter--got to
ride him on the snaffle, not the curb."

Lady Highford looked down at her plate, while she gave an answer quite
at variance with her own methods.

"Snaffle or curb, no one