man is extremely seductive to good women.  Dear to their tender bosoms as old china is a bad man they are mending!  Lord Mountfalcon had none of the arts of a libertine:  his gold, his title, and his person had hitherto preserved him from having long to sigh in vain, or sigh at all, possibly:  the Hon. Peter did his villanies for him.  No alarm was given to Lucy’s pure instinct, as might have been the case had my lord been over-adept.  It was nice in her martyrdom to have a true friend to support her, and really to be able to do something for that friend.  Too simple-minded to think much of his lordship’s position, she was yet a woman.  “He, a great nobleman, does not scorn to acknowledge me, and think something of me,” may have been one of the half-thoughts passing through her now and then, as she reflected in self-defence on the proud family she had married into.

January was watering and freezing old earth by turns, when the Hon. Peter travelled down to the sun of his purse with great news.  He had no sooner broached his lordship’s immediate weakness, than Mountfalcon began to plunge like a heavy dragoon in difficulties.  He swore by this and that he had come across an angel for his sins, and would do her no hurt.  The next moment he swore she must be his, though she cursed like a cat.  His lordship’s illustrations were not choice.  “I haven’t advanced an inch,” he groaned.  “Brayder! upon my soul, that little woman could do anything with me.  By heaven!  I’d marry her to-morrow.  Here I am, seeing her every day in the week out or in, and what do you think she gets me to talk about?—­history!  Isn’t it enough to make a fellow mad? and there am I lecturing like a prig, and by heaven! while I’m at it I feel a pleasure in it; and when I leave the house I should feel an immense gratification in shooting somebody.  What do they say in town?”

“Not much,” said Brayder, significantly.

“When’s that fellow—­her husband—­coming down?”

“I rather hope we’ve settled him for life, Mount.”

Nobleman and parasite exchanged looks.

“How d’ye mean?”

Brayder hummed an air, and broke it to say, “He’s in for Don Juan at a gallop, that’s all.”

“The deuce!  Has Bella got him?” Mountfalcon asked with eagerness.

Brayder handed my lord a letter.  It was dated from the Sussex coast, signed “Richard,” and was worded thus: 

“My beautiful Devil!—­

“Since we’re both devils together, and have found each other out, come to me at once, or I shall be going somewhere in a hurry.  Come, my bright hell-star!  I ran away from you, and now I ask you to come to me!  You have taught me how devils love, and I can’t do without you.  Come an hour after you receive this.”

Mountfalcon turned over the letter to see if there was any more.  “Complimentary love-epistle!” he remarked, and rising from his chair and striding about, muttered, “The dog! how infamously he treats his wife!”