extent that she had scarcely any leisure to
attend to her own. Mr. Rush-Marvelle,--but why describe this gentleman
at all? He was a mere nonentity--known simply as the husband of Mrs.
Rush-Marvelle. He knew he was nobody--and, unlike many men placed in a
similar position, he was satisfied with his lot. He admired his wife
intensely, and never failed to flatter her vanity to the utmost excess,
so that, on the whole, they were excellent friends, and agreed much
better than most married people.

It was about twelve o'clock in the day, when Mrs. Rush-Marvelle's neat
little brougham and pair stopped at Lord Winsleigh's great house in Park
Lane. A gorgeous flunkey threw open the door with a virtuously severe
expression on his breakfast-flushed countenance,--an expression which
relaxed into a smile of condescension on seeing who the visitor was.

"I suppose Lady Winsleigh is at home, Briggs?" inquired Mrs. Marvelle,
with the air of one familiar with the ways of the household.

"Yes'm," replied Briggs slowly, taking in the "style" of Mrs.
Rush-Marvelle's bonnet, and mentally calculating its cost. "Her ladyship
is in the boo-dwar."

"I'll go there," said Mrs. Marvelle, stepping into the hall, and
beginning to walk across it, in her own important and self-assertive
manner. "You needn't announce me."

Briggs closed the street-door, settled his powdered wig, and looked
after her meditatively. Then he shut up one eye in a sufficiently
laborious manner and grinned. After this he retired slowly to a small
ante-room, where he found the _World_ with its leaves uncut. Taking up
his master's ivory paper-knife, he proceeded to remedy this slight
inconvenience,--and, yawning heavily, he seated himself in a velvet
arm-chair, and was soon absorbed in perusing the pages of the journal in
question.

Meanwhile Mrs. Marvelle, in her way across the great hall to the
"boo-dwar," had been interrupted and nearly knocked down by the playful
embrace of a handsome boy, who sprang out upon her suddenly with a shout
of laughter,--a boy of about twelve years old, with frank, bright blue
eyes and clustering dark curls.

"Hullo, Mimsey!" cried this young gentleman-"here you are again! Do you
want to see papa? Papa's in there!"--pointing to the door from which he
had emerged--"he's correcting my Latin exercise. Five good marks to-day,
and I'm going to the circus this afternoon! Isn't it jolly?"

"Dear me, Ernest!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle half crossl