d the Chaplain. The
Marquis looked at him, muttered something, and snarled as he hurried up
the step of the carriage. "I'm sorry that we are to lose your Lordship
so soon." Then there was another snarl. "I had one word I wanted to
say."

"To me! What can you have to say to me?"

"If at any time I can do anything for your Lordship at Brotherton----"

"You can't do anything. Go on." The last direction was given to the
coachman, and the carriage was driven off, leaving Mr. Groschut on the
path.

Before lunch everybody in the house knew that poor little Popenjoy was
dead, and that the Dean had, in fact, won the battle,--though not in
the way that he had sought to win it. Lord Brotherton had, after a
fashion, been popular at Rudham, but, nevertheless, it was felt by them
all that Lady George was a much greater woman to-day than she had been
yesterday. It was felt also that the Dean was in the ascendant. The
Marquis had been quite agreeable, making love to the ladies, and fairly
civil to the gentlemen,--excepting Mr. Groschut; but he certainly was
not a man likely to live to eighty. He was married, and, as was
generally understood, separated from his wife. They might all live to
see Lady George Marchioness of Brotherton and a son of hers Lord
Popenjoy.

"Dead!" said Lady Brabazon, when Lady Alice, with sad face, whispered
to her the fatal news.

"He got a telegram this morning from Italy. Poor little boy."

"And what'll he do now;--the Marquis I mean?"

"I suppose he'll follow his wife," said Lady Alice.

"Was he much cut up?"

"I didn't see him. He merely sent me word by Mr. De Baron." Mr. De
Baron afterwards assured Lady Brabazon that the poor father had been
very much cut up. Great pity was expressed throughout the party, but
there was not one there who would not now have been civil to poor Mary.

The Marquis had his flowers, and his fruit, and his French novels on
his way up to town, and kept his sorrow, if he felt it, very much to
himself. Soon after his arrival at Scumberg's, at which place they were
obliged to take him in as he was still paying for his rooms, he made it
known that he should start for Italy in a day or two. On that night and
on the next he did not go out in his brougham, nor did he give any
offence to Mrs. Walker. London was as empty as London ever is, and
nobody came to see him. For two days he did not leave his room, the
same room in which the Dean had nearly killed him, and received nob