delight is to take
note of all her mistress's incomings and outgoings, tempers and
tears--to watch her looks, her smiles and frowns,--and to start
scandalous gossip concerning her in the servants' hall, from whence it
gradually spreads to the society newspapers--for do you think these
estimable and popular journals are never indebted for their "reliable"
information to the "honest" statements of discharged footman or valet?
Briggs, for instance, had tried his hand at a paragraph or two
concerning the "Upper Ten," and with the aid of a dictionary, had
succeeded in expressing himself quite smartly, though in ordinary
conversation his h's were often lacking or superfluous, and his grammar
doubtful. Whether he persuaded any editor to accept his literary efforts
is quite another matter--a question to which the answer must remain for
ever enveloped in mystery,--but if he _did_ appear in print (it is only
an if!) he must have been immensely gratified to consider that his
statements were received with gusto by at least half aristocratic
London, and implicitly believed as having emanated from the "best
authorities." And Louise Renaud having posted her mistress's letter at
last, went down to visit Briggs in his private pantry, and to ask him a
question.

"Tell me," she said rapidly, with her tight, prim smile. "You read the
papers--you will know. What lady is that of the theatres--Violet Vere?"

Briggs laid down the paper he was perusing and surveyed her with a
superior air.

"What, Vi?" he exclaimed with a lazy wink. "Vi, of the Hopperer-Buff?
You've 'erd of 'er surely, Mamzelle? No? There's not a man (as is worth
calling a man) about town, as don't know _'er_! Dukes, Lords, an' Royal
'Ighnesses--she's the style for 'em! Mag-ni-ficent creetur! all legs and
arms! I won't deny but wot I 'ave an admiration for 'er myself--I bought
a 'arf-crown portrait of 'er quite recently." And Briggs rose slowly and
searched in a mysterious drawer which he invariably kept locked.

"'Ere she is, as large as life, Mamzelle," he continued, exhibiting a
"promenade" photograph of the actress in question. "There's a neck for
you! There's form! Vi, my dear, I saloot you!" and he pressed a sounding
kiss on the picture--"you're one in a million! Smokes and drinks like a
trooper, Mamzelle!" he added admiringly, as Louise Renaud studied the
portrait attentively. "But with all 'er advantages, you would not call
'er a lady. No--that term would be out of