A letter, bearing the Boulogne postmark, was
brought to her one morning, and she and her husband were quarrelling
over it as Foker passed down the stairs by the bar, on his way to
the Park. His custom was to breakfast there, and bask a while in
the presence of Armida; then, as the company of Clavering tired him
exceedingly, and he did not care for sporting, he would return for an
hour or two to billiards and the society of the Clavering Arms; then it
would be time to ride with Miss Amory, and, after dining with her, he
left her and returned modestly to his inn.

Lightfoot and his wife were quarrelling over the letter. What was that
letter from abroad? Why was she always having letters from abroad? Who
wrote 'em?--he would know. He didn't believe it was her brother. It
was no business of his? It was a business of his; and, with a curse, he
seized hold of his wife, and dashed at her pocket for the letter.

The poor woman gave a scream; and said, "Well, take it." Just as her
husband seized on the letter, and Mr. Foker entered at the door, she
gave another scream at seeing him, and once more tried to seize the
paper. Lightfoot opened it, shaking her away, and an enclosure dropped
down on the breakfast-table.

"Hands off, man alive!" cried little Harry, springing in. "Don't lay
hands on a woman, sir. The man that lays his hand upon a woman, save in
the way of kindness, is a--hallo! it's a letter for Miss Amory. What's
this, Mrs. Lightfoot?"

Mrs. Lightfoot began, in piteous tones of reproach to her husband,--"You
unmanly! to treat a woman so who took you off the street. Oh, you
coward, to lay your hand upon your wife! Why did I marry you? Why did I
leave my Lady for you? Why did I spend eight hundred pound in fitting up
this house that you might drink and guzzle?"

"She gets letters, and she won't tell me who writes letters," said Mr.
Lightfoot, with a muzzy voice; "it's a family affair, sir. Will you take
anything, sir?"

"I will take this letter to Miss Amory, as I am going to the Park," said
Foker, turning very pale; and taking it up from the table, which was
arranged for the poor landlady's breakfast, he went away.

"He's comin'--dammy, who's a-comin'? Who's J. A., Mrs. Lightfoot--curse
me, who's J. A.?" cried the husband.

Mrs. Lightfoot cried out, "Be quiet, you tipsy brute, do," and running
to her bonnet and shawl, threw them on, saw Mr. Foker walking down the
street, took the by-lane which skirts it, and ran