‘Here we are, mother,’ interrupted Howel, as the cab stopped in Half Moon Street.  ’Now, you must remember that the landlady is not to be in all our secrets.’

’Seure, and this isn’t half as grand as Pic—­what’s that long name, Howel?’

‘Will you walk upstairs, ma’am,’ said a well-dressed woman who stood in the passage of the house at which they stopped.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Mrs Jenkins, making her very best curtsey to the landlady.

‘Is tea ready, Mrs Thompson?’ asked Howel, hastening into the passage.

‘Yes, sir!’ replied Mrs Thompson, trying to catch a glimpse of Netta’s face.

‘This way, mother,’ said Howel, striding upstairs.  ’You can send the traps into the bedrooms, Mrs Thompson.  William, take them up.’

This to a smart tiger, emblazoned in green and gold, belonging to Howel’s private menagerie.

‘What a lovely room! what a beautiful fire!’ cried Netta, as she followed Howel into a handsome first-floor drawing-room.

‘Treue for you there!’ said Mrs Jenkins, surveying herself in the glass.

Tea was ready, and a substantial repast besides, of which they all soon began to partake, and to which they did justice.

’I do wish I had that drop of brandy I left in those grand rooms, I am feeling a pain,’ began Mrs Jenkins.

Howel drew a flask from his pocket, and poured a little brandy into his mother’s tea.

‘This must be the first and last time mother,’ he said, as he did so.

When they had finished tea, Howel told them that their room was within the folding-doors, and that Netta would find a dress there for the play, and must make haste, if she meant to go.  His mother, being in her very best black, wanted nothing but the widow’s cap to complete her attire as chaperon.  Howel lighted his cigar, and finished the brandy in the flask whilst the women were dressing.  They soon returned, Netta looking really beautiful, in a new and fashionable white dress, elaborately trimmed with ribbons and lace.

Howel went up to her and kissed her with infinite satisfaction.

‘Won’t we create a sensation at the Olympic,’ he said.  ’There will not be such bright eyes and lilies and roses to be seen there as yours, cousin Netta!’

‘Mother don’t approve of plays, Howel!’

‘You must think of me, not mother now,’ said Howel, ringing the bell and ordering a cab, which as soon as it arrived received our trio, and was driven to the Olympic, where they arrived in due time, and where we will leave them for the present.

CHAPTER XV.

THE MILLIONAIRE’S WIFE.

’Don’t you be taking on so, Netta, fach! if you do be crying this way, your eyes ’ll be as red as carrots, and Howel ‘ont like it.’

’Oh!  Aunt ’Lisbeth, I can’t help thinking of mother, and how she is vexing about me.’