d pearls melted into her champagne if she
liked--another Cleopatra--and the potentate of Peterwaradin would have
given half the brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from those
dazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. The
ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and marked Lord
Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous
infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank. If sarcasm could have
killed, Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot.

Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to separate
his wife farther than ever from him somehow. He thought with a feeling
very like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.

When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her to
her carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being caught
up by the link-men who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt
House, congratulating each person who issued from the gate and hoping
his Lordship had enjoyed this noble party.

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after due
shouting, rattled into the illuminated court-yard and drove up to the
covered way. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove off.
Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered the Colonel
the refreshment of a cigar.

They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link-boys
outside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. Two persons
separated from the crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when they
had walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one of the men came
up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder, said, "Beg your pardon,
Colonel, I vish to speak to you most particular." This gentleman's
acquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a
cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate of Gaunt
House--and the aide-de-camp ran round and placed himself in front of
Colonel Crawley.

That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in the
hands of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against the man who
had first touched him.

"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man behind said.

"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know his
interlocutor. "How much is it?"

"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, Chancery
Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex--"One hundred
and sixty