probates, so I'm told--and after leading the most awful life out
there, making love to all the peasant girls in the place, he married one
of them,--a common farmer's daughter. Don't you remember? We saw the
announcement of his marriage in the _Times_."

"Ah yes, yes!" And Mr. Rush-Marvelle smiled a propitiatory smile,
intended to soothe the evidently irritated feelings of his better-half,
of whom he stood always in awe. "Of course, of course! A very sad
_mesalliance_. Yes, yes! Poor fellow! And is there fresh news of him?"

"Read _that_,"--and the lady handed the _Morning Post_ across the table,
indicating by a dent of her polished finger-nail, the paragraph that had
offended her sense of social dignity. Mr. Marvelle read it with almost
laborious care--though it was remarkably short and easy of
comprehension.

"Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington have arrived at their house in
Prince's Gate from Errington Manor."

"Well, my dear?" he inquired, with a furtive and anxious glance at his
wife. "I suppose--er--it--er--it was to be expected?"

"No, it was _not_ to be expected," said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, rearing her
head, and heaving her ample bosom to and fro in rather a tumultuous
manner. "Of course it was to be expected that Bruce-Errington would
behave like a fool--his father was a fool before him. But I say it was
not to be expected that he would outrage society by bringing that common
wife of his to London, and expecting _us_ to receive her! The thing is
perfectly scandalous! He has had the decency to keep away from town ever
since his marriage--part of the time he has staid abroad, and since
January he has been at his place in Warwickshire,--and this
time--observe this!" and Mrs. Marvelle looked most impressive--"not a
soul has been invited to the Manor--not a living soul! The house used to
be full of people during the winter season--of course, now, he dare not
ask anybody lest they should be shocked at his wife's ignorance. That's
as clear as daylight! And now he has the impudence to actually bring her
here,--into _society_! Good Heavens! He must be mad! He will be laughed
at wherever he goes!"

Mr. Rush-Marvelle scratched his bony chin perplexedly.

"It makes it a little awkward for--for you," he remarked feelingly.

"Awkward! It is abominable!" And Mrs. Marvelle rose from her chair, and
shook out the voluminous train of her silken breakfast-gown, an
elaborate combination of crimson with grey chinchilla fur. "I