e accept the chance
which brings us together, and call upon you as an old friend,
I shall really be grateful: for there will be much to talk
about, even if we avoid, as I promise to do, all that is
painful; and I am very lonely. I have seen your husband, and
hope you are very happy.--Believe me, very sincerely yours,
Philip Fogo."

"What does it mean?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys helplessly.

"It means, Nellie, that we have just time enough, and none to spare;
in other words, that 'Goodwyn-Sandys' has come near to being a
confoundedly fatal--"

"Then he must have known--"

"Known! My treasure, where are your wits? Beautiful namesake--
jilted lover--'hence, perjured woman'--bleeding heart--years pass--
marry another--finger of fate--Good Lord!" wound up the Honourable
Frederic. "I met the fellow one day, and couldn't understand why he
stared so--gave me the creeps--see it all now."

He lay back in his chair and whistled.

There was a tap at the drawing-room door, and the buttoned youth
announced that Mrs. Buzza was without, and earnestly begged an
interview with Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. The Honourable Frederic
obligingly retired to smoke, and the visitor was shown in.

Her appearance was extraordinary. Her portly figure shook; her eyes
were red; her bonnet, rakishly poised over the left eye, had dragged
askew the "front" under it, as though its wearer had parted her hair
on one side in a distracted moment. A sob rent her bosom as she
entered.

"My poor soul!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "you are in trouble."

Mrs. Buzza tried to speak, but dropped into a chair and nodded
instead.

"What _is_ the matter?"

"It's--it's _him_."

"The Admiral?"

Mrs. Buzza mopped her eyes and nodded again.

"What has he done now?"

"S-said his bu-bu-breakfast was cold this mo-horning, and p-pitched
the bu-bu-breakfast set over the quay-door," she moaned. "Oh! w-what
shall I do?"

"Leave him!"

Mrs. Buzza clasped her hands and stared.

"You could see the m-marks quite plain," she wailed.

"What! Did he strike you?"

"I mean, on the bo-bottom of the c-cups. They were real
W-worcester."

"Leave him! Oh! I have no patience," and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys stamped
her little foot, "with you women of Troy. Will you always be dolls--
dolls with a painted smile for all man's insane caprices? Will you
never--?"

"I don't paint," put in Mrs. Buzza feebly.