heads are very near together,--as near as they can well be without
kissing. She has placed her hand upon his arm, and is speaking in a
low, earnest tone,--so low that Stafford cannot hear distinctly, the
room being lengthy and the noise from the street confusing. How
handsome Luttrell is looking! With what undisguised eagerness he is
drinking in her every word!

Suddenly, with a little movement as though of sudden remembrance, Cecil
puts her hand in her pocket and draws from it a tiny note, which she
squeezes with much _empressement_ into Tedcastle's hand. Then
follow a few more words, and then she pushes him gently in the
direction of the door.

"Now go," she says, "and remember all I have said to you. Are the
conditions so hard?" With her old charming, bewitching smile.

"How shall I thank you?" says the young man, fervently, his whole face
transformed. He seizes her hands and presses his lips to them in what
seems to the looker-on at the other end of the room an impassioned
manner. "You have managed that we shall meet,--and alone?"

"Yes, alone. I have made sure of that. I really think, considering all
I have done for you, Tedcastle, you owe me something."

"Name anything," says Luttrell, with considerable fervor. "I owe you,
as I have said, everything. You are my good angel!"

"Well, that is as it may be. All women are angels,--at one time or
other. But you must not speak to me in that strain, or I shall mention
some one who would perhaps be angry." ("That's me, I presume," thinks
Sir Penthony, grimly.) "I suppose"--archly--"I need not tell you to be
in time? To be late under such circumstances, with _me_, would
mean dismissal. Good-bye, dear boy: go, and my good wishes will follow
you."

As the door closes upon Luttrell, Sir Penthony, cold, and with an
alarming amount of dignity about him, comes slowly forward.

"Sir Penthony! you!" cries Cecil, coloring certainly, but whether from
guilt, or pleasure, or surprise, he finds it hard to say. He inclines,
however, toward the guilt. "Why, I thought you safe in Algiers." (This
is not strictly true.)

"No doubt. I thought _you_ safe in London--or anywhere else. I
find myself mistaken!"

"I am, dear, perfectly safe." Sweetly. "Don't alarm yourself
unnecessarily. But may I ask what all this means, and why you were
hiding behind my curtains as though you were a burglar or a
Bashi-Bazouk? But that the pantomime season is over, I should say you
were practicing f