As for Tussie,—­well, you cannot have omelettes without breaking eggs, and Tussie on this occasion was the eggs.  It is a painful part to play.  He found it exquisitely painful, and vainly sought comfort in the consolation that it had been Priscilla’s omelette.  The consolation proved empty, and for a long while he suffered every sort of torment known to the sensitive.  But he got over it.  People do.  They will get over anything if you give them time, and he being young had plenty of it.  He lived it down as one lives down every sorrow and every joy; and when in the fulness of time, after a series of years in which he went about listlessly in a soft felt hat and an unsatisfactory collar, he married, it was to Priscilla’s capital that he went for his honeymoon.  She, hearing he was there, sent for them both and was kind.

As for Annalise, she never got her twenty thousand marks.  On the contrary, the vindictive Grand Duke caused her to be prosecuted for blackmailing, and she would undoubtedly have languished in prison if Priscilla had not interfered and sent her back to her parents.  Like Mrs. Morrison, she is chastened.  She does not turn up her nose so much.  She does not sing.  Indeed her songs ceased from the moment she caught sight through a crack in the kitchen door of the Prince’s broad shoulders filling up Fritzing’s sitting-room.  From that moment Annalise swooned from one depth of respect and awe to the other.  She became breathlessly willing, meek to vanishing point.  But Priscilla could not forget all she had made her suffer; and the Prince, who had thought of everything, suddenly producing her head woman from some recess in Baker’s Farm, where she too had spent the night, Annalise was superseded, her further bitter fate being to be left behind at Creeper Cottage in the charge of the gentleman with the cheque-book—­who as it chanced was a faddist in food and would allow nothing more comforting than dried fruits and nuts to darken the doors—­till he should have leisure to pack her up and send her home.

As for Emma, she was hunted out by that detective who travelled down into Somersetshire with the fugitives and who had already been so useful to the Prince; and Priscilla, desperately anxious to make amends wherever she could, took her into her own household, watching over her herself, seeing to it that no word of what she had done was ever blown about among the crowd of idle tongues, and she ended, I believe, by marrying a lacquey,—­one of those splendid persons with white silk calves who were so precious in the sight of Annalise.  Indeed I am not sure that it was not the very lacquey Annalise had loved most and had intended to marry herself.  In this story at least, the claims of poetic justice shall be strictly attended to; and Annalise had sniffed outrageously at Emma.

As for the Countess Disthal, she married the doctor and was sorry ever afterwards; but her sorrow was as nothing compared with his.