Mrs. Doncastle seemed inclined to make no remark during the dressing, and at last Menlove could repress herself no longer.

‘I should like to name something to you, m’m.’

‘Yes.’

‘I shall be wishing to leave soon, if it is convenient.’

‘Very well, Menlove,’ answered Mrs. Doncastle, as she serenely surveyed her right eyebrow in the glass.  ‘Am I to take this as a formal notice?’

’If you please; but I could stay a week or two beyond the month if suitable.  I am going to be married—­that’s what it is, m’m.’

‘O!  I am glad to hear it, though I am sorry to lose you.’

‘It is Lord Mountclere’s valet—­Mr. Tipman—­m’m.’

‘Indeed.’

Menlove went on building up Mrs. Doncastle’s hair awhile in silence.

‘I suppose you heard the other news that arrived in town to-day, m’m?’ she said again.  ‘Lord Mountclere is going to be married to-morrow.’

‘To-morrow?  Are you quite sure?’

’O yes, m’m.  Mr. Tipman has just told me so in his letter.  He is going to be married to Mrs. Petherwin.  It is to be quite a private wedding.’

Mrs. Doncastle made no remark, and she remained in the same still position as before; but a countenance expressing transcendent surprise was reflected to Menlove by the glass.

At this sight Menlove’s tongue so burned to go further, and unfold the lady’s relations with the butler downstairs, that she would have lost a month’s wages to be at liberty to do it.  The disclosure was almost too magnificent to be repressed.  To deny herself so exquisite an indulgence required an effort which nothing on earth could have sustained save the one thing that did sustain it—­the knowledge that upon her silence hung the most enormous desideratum in the world, her own marriage.  She said no more, and Mrs. Doncastle went away.

It was an ordinary family dinner that day, but their nephew Neigh happened to be present.  Just as they were sitting down Mrs. Doncastle said to her husband:  ’Why have you not told me of the wedding to-morrow?—­or don’t you know anything about it?’

‘Wedding?’ said Mr. Doncastle.

‘Lord Mountclere is to be married to Mrs. Petherwin quite privately.’

‘Good God!’ said some person.

Mr. Doncastle did not speak the words; they were not spoken by Neigh:  they seemed to float over the room and round the walls, as if originating in some spiritualistic source.  Yet Mrs. Doncastle, remembering the symptoms of attachment between Ethelberta and her nephew which had appeared during the summer, looked towards Neigh instantly, as if she thought the words must have come from him after all; but Neigh’s face was perfectly calm; he, together with her husband, was sitting with his eyes fixed in the direction of the sideboard; and turning to the same spot she beheld Chickerel standing pale as death, his lips being parted as if he did not know where he was.