“Fogo?” she repeated, with a glance at the signature—­“Fogo?  Won’t that be the name of the woman-hater up at Kit’s House, me dear?”

“Certainly,” answered the Honourable Frederic.

“Then I’ll trouble yez to listen to this.”

She read as follows:—­

“My Dear Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, When last you left me I prayed that we might never meet again.  But time is stronger than I fancied, and here I am writing to you.  Fate must have been in her most ironical mood to bring us so near in this corner of the world.  I thought you were in another continent; but if you will let me accept the chance which brings us together, and call upon you as an old friend, I shall really be grateful:  for there will be much to talk about, even if we avoid, as I promise to do, all that is painful; and I am very lonely.  I have seen your husband, and hope you are very happy.—­Believe me, very sincerely yours,
                                 Philip Fogo.”

“What does it mean?” asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys helplessly.

“It means, Nellie, that we have just time enough, and none to spare; in other words, that ‘Goodwyn-Sandys’ has come near to being a confoundedly fatal—­”

“Then he must have known—­”

“Known!  My treasure, where are your wits?  Beautiful namesake—­ jilted lover—­’hence, perjured woman’—­bleeding heart—­years pass—­ marry another—­finger of fate—­Good Lord!” wound up the Honourable Frederic.  “I met the fellow one day, and couldn’t understand why he stared so—­gave me the creeps—­see it all now.”

He lay back in his chair and whistled.

There was a tap at the drawing-room door, and the buttoned youth announced that Mrs. Buzza was without, and earnestly begged an interview with Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.  The Honourable Frederic obligingly retired to smoke, and the visitor was shown in.

Her appearance was extraordinary.  Her portly figure shook; her eyes were red; her bonnet, rakishly poised over the left eye, had dragged askew the “front” under it, as though its wearer had parted her hair on one side in a distracted moment.  A sob rent her bosom as she entered.

“My poor soul!” murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, “you are in trouble.”

Mrs. Buzza tried to speak, but dropped into a chair and nodded instead.

“What is the matter?”

“It’s—­it’s him.”

“The Admiral?”

Mrs. Buzza mopped her eyes and nodded again.

“What has he done now?”

“S-said his bu-bu-breakfast was cold this mo-horning, and p-pitched the bu-bu-breakfast set over the quay-door,” she moaned.  “Oh! w-what shall I do?”

“Leave him!”

Mrs. Buzza clasped her hands and stared.

“You could see the m-marks quite plain,” she wailed.

“What!  Did he strike you?”

“I mean, on the bo-bottom of the c-cups.  They were real W-worcester.”