‘It makes no difference,’ said Mountclere inanimately.

‘Or I might have brought my portmantle, with some things.’

‘It really is not important.’

On reaching the station they found there were yet a few minutes to spare, which Sol made use of in writing a note to his father, to explain what had occurred.

42.  The Doncastles’ residence, and outside the same

Mrs. Doncastle’s dressing-bell had rung, but Menlove, the lady’s maid, having at the same time received a letter by the evening post, paused to read it before replying to the summons:—­

   ’Enckworth court, Wednesday.

Darling Louisa,—­I can assure you that I am no more likely than yourself to form another attachment, as you will perceive by what follows.  Before we left town I thought that to be able to see you occasionally was sufficient for happiness, but down in this lonely place the case is different.  In short, my dear, I ask you to consent to a union with me as soon as you possibly can.  Your prettiness has won my eyes and lips completely, sweet, and I lie awake at night to think of the golden curls you allowed to escape from their confinement on those nice times of private clothes, when we walked in the park and slipped the bonds of service, which you were never born to any more than I. . . .

’Had not my own feelings been so strong, I should have told you at the first dash of my pen that what I expected is coming to pass at last—­the old dog is going to be privately married to Mrs. P. Yes, indeed, and the wedding is coming off to-morrow, secret as the grave.  All her friends will doubtless leave service on account of it.  What he does now makes little difference to me, of course, as I had already given warning, but I shall stick to him like a Briton in spite of it.  He has to-day made me a present, and a further five pounds for yourself, expecting you to hold your tongue on every matter connected with Mrs. P.’s friends, and to say nothing to any of them about this marriage until it is over.  His lordship impressed this upon me very strong, and familiar as a brother, and of course we obey his instructions to the letter; for I need hardly say that unless he keeps his promise to help me in setting up the shop, our nuptials cannot be consumed.  His help depends upon our obedience, as you are aware. . . .’

This, and much more, was from her very last lover, Lord Mountclere’s valet, who had been taken in hand directly she had convinced herself of Joey’s hopeless youthfulness.  The missive sent Mrs. Menlove’s spirits soaring like spring larks; she flew upstairs in answer to the bell with a joyful, triumphant look, which the illuminated figure of Mrs. Doncastle in her dressing-room could not quite repress.  One could almost forgive Menlove her arts when so modest a result brought such vast content.