It is wonderful how soon the London season comes to an end; and, in fact, it is difficult to say when its tide is really at the flood. Single men—and they are necessary ingredients for gaiety wherever there are young ladies—single men seldom go to town much before the Derby. Then comes Ascot, for which meeting they leave the metropolis, and enjoy some quiet retreat in the neighbourhood of Windsor, taking with them many potables and what they call a "dog cook." After Ascot people begin to think about going away, and before you know where you are three more weeks have elapsed, and it is July. Dear, what a scatter there is then!—some off to Norway, some to Cowes, some to Caithness, and some to Galway. Those that remain for Goodwood are sure to go to Newmarket; and the man who sticks religiously to the pavement, and resists the allurements of all the above-mentioned resorts, only does so because he is meditating a trip to California, Kamtschatka, or the Rocky Mountains, and is so preoccupied with portable soup, patent saddle-bags, bowie-knives, and revolvers that he might just as well be at his ultimate destination in person for all the benefit one gets from his society. I confess I don't like the end of the season. You keep on trying to be gay, whilst your friends are dropping off and disappearing one by one. Like the survivor in some horrid pestilence, you know your time must come too; but you shut your eyes to the certainty, and greet every fresh departure with a gaiety more forced and a smile more and more hopeless.

Well, my London season too was drawing to its close, and I confess I had enjoyed it very much. What with my morning gallops and afternoon saunters (for John had returned to his allegiance, and came to take me out regularly, although he always joined Miss Molasses' party when he got into the Park); what with Aunt Deborah's tiresome cold, which obliged me to go about a good deal by myself, and the agreeable society of Frank Lovell, who never missed an opportunity of being with us, I had been very happy, and I was quite sorry to think it was all so soon to come to an end. John was already talking of a fishing excursion to Norway, and actually proposed that I should accompany him; an arrangement which Aunt Deborah declared "was totally impracticable," and which I confess I do not myself think would have been a very good plan. I had made several pleasant acquaintances, amongst whom I may number Lady Scapegrace—that much-maligned dame having taken a great fancy to me ever after the affair of the bull, and proving, when I came to know her better, a very different person from what the world gave her credit for being. With all her faults—the chief of which were an uncontrollable temper and much too strong feelings for the nineteenth century—she had a warm, affectionate heart, and was altogether an energetic, straightforward woman, very much in earnest, whether for good or evil. But there was one thing that vexed me considerably amongst all my regrets for past pleasures and castles in the air for the future, and this was the conduct of Captain Lovell. What did he mean? I couldn't make him out at all. One day calling on my aunt at eleven in the morning, and staying to luncheon, and making himself so agreeable to her, and bringing bouquets of the loveliest flowers (which I know came from Harding's or else direct from Covent Garden) to me; and then going away as if he had fifty more things to say, and lingering over his farewell as if he was on the eve of departure for China instead of Mayfair, and joining me again in the Park, and asking me if I was going to the Opera, and finding out all my engagements and intentions, as if he couldn't possibly live five minutes out of my sight; and then, perhaps, never coming near us for days together, till even my aunt "wondered what had become of that pleasant Captain Lovell;" and when he met me in the Park, taking off his hat with a civil bow, as if he had only been introduced the night before. All this I couldn't make out, and I didn't half like, as I told Lady Scapegrace one hot morning, sitting with her in her boudoir. I was a good deal at Lady Scapegrace's now, and the more so because that was the place of all others at which I was least likely to meet Sir Guy. "Men are so uncertain, my dear," said her ladyship, sitting in a morning deshabille, with her long black hair combed straight out over her shoulders and reaching nearly to her knees. "If you ask me candidly whether he means anything, I tell you I think Frank Lovell a shocking flirt." "Flirt!" I replied, half crying with vexation. "It's time enough for him to flirt with me when I give him any encouragement. But I don't, Lady Scapegrace, and I never will. I hope I'm too proud for that. Only when a man is always in one's pocket wherever one goes; when he sends one bouquets, and rides out in the rain to get one's bracelet mended, and watches one from a corner of the room if one happens to be dancing with anybody else, and looks pleased when one is dull and cross when one laughs—why, he either does prefer, or ought to prefer, one's society to that of Miss Molasses and Mrs. Lumley, and that is why I tell you I can't quite make out Captain Lovell."

"Don't talk of that odious woman," exclaimed Lady Scapegrace, between whom and Mrs. Lumley there was a polite feud of some years' standing. "She is ready and willing to jump down Frank Lovell's throat, or any one else's for the matter of that, so bold as she is, and so utterly regardless—such stories, my dear. But take my advice, Kate: play that cheerful cousin of yours against Master Frank. I never knew it fail yet if you only go the right way to work. Men are not only very vain, but very jealous. Don't let him think you are going to marry your cousin, or he may consider it a capital arrangement and a sort of matter-of-course affair, which is all in his favour. Men like Frank always prefer other people's property, and I have no doubt he would be over head and ears in love with you if you were not single. So don't be going to marry Mr. Jones, but just appeal to him about every earthly thing you do or say, look after him when he leaves the room, as if you couldn't bear him out of your sight. Get Frank to abuse him if you can, and then fight his battles fiercely; and directly the latter thinks there is a rival in the field he will be down on his knees, you mark my words, in two days' time at the furthest. I think I ought to know what men are, my dear" (and to do Lady Scapegrace justice, she had studied that variety of the creation to some purpose, or she was much maligned). "I know that they can't, any of them, see three yards before their noses, and that you can turn and twist them which way you will if you only go upon this principle—that they are full of vanity and self-conceit, and totally deficient in brains."

"But I'm sure Captain Lovell's a clever man," said I, not disposed to come to quite such sweeping conclusions as those of my monitress; "and—and—I don't mean to say that I care about him, Lady Scapegrace, but still it mightn't answer with him, and—and—I shouldn't like to lose him altogether."

"Pooh! Lose him! Fiddlestick!" rejoined her ladyship. "You'll see. He is to join our party at Greenwich this afternoon. By the way, when Sir Guy heard you were coming, he proposed to drive us all down on that horrid coach. But I told him we should be taken for the people that usually occupy it, and nothing should induce me to go; so that plan was given up. But you and I will go down in the barouche, and I'll call for you, and we'll take Mr. Jones with us. And mind you're very civil to him, and only notice the other in a quiet, good-humoured way—for he mustn't think you do it out of pique—and before the whitebait is on the table you'll see he'll be a different man. But now you must go—there's a dear. I'll call for you at five. It's too bad to turn you out; but I'm never at home to any one between three and half-past four. Good-bye, dear, good-bye."

And Lady Scapegrace kissed me most affectionately, and promised to call for me punctually at five, till which hour I cannot make out why her time was always engaged.

As I tripped downstairs, hoping to make my escape without being attended by the whole establishment to open the house-door, whom should I come across but odious Sir Guy, in a sort of scarlet fancy dress, which I concluded was his morning "demi-toilette." He actually had the effrontery to propose that I should accompany him to the stable, and that he should then "show me his boudoir—hey? You look like a rose this morning, Miss Coventry. Should like to transplant you. What?" And whilst he stood dodging and grinning on the stairs, I managed to slip by him and get safe into the street. I wonder when men think they are beginning to grow old! I am sure Sir Guy fancies he is still in the flower of his youth, and so charming that nobody can resist him.

What a pleasant day we had! Only we four—Lady Scapegrace, Cousin John, Captain Lovell, and I. We went down in Lady Scapegrace's barouche, and walked in Greenwich Park, and adjourned to a nice room with a bay window, and such a lookout over the river, blushing rose colour in the evening sun. And the whitebait was so good, and the champagne-cup so nice; and we were all in such spirits, and Frank was so kind and attentive and agreeable I couldn't find it in my heart to be cross to him. So it ended in our making up any little imaginary differences we may have had and becoming better friends than ever. As we sat in the balcony over the river—the two gentlemen smoking their after-dinner cigars, and we ladies sipping our coffee—I thought I had never enjoyed an evening so much; and even John, who was generally dreadfully afraid of Lady Scapegrace, became quite lively and gallant (for him), and they laughed and talked and joked about all sorts of things; while Frank leant over my shoulder and conversed more gravely than was his habit; and I listened, and thought him pleasanter even than usual. By the way, that lilac bonnet never quite lost the odour of tobacco afterwards.

"How quick the time passes!" said Frank, with almost a sigh. "Can't we do anything to put off horrid London and home and bed? Let's all go to Vauxhall."

"What do you say, Mr. Jones?" inquired Lady Scapegrace, who was always ready for a lark; "you're our chaperon, you know. Do you think you can be responsible?"

"Oh yes, John!" I exclaimed. "You promised to take me once before the end of the season. We shall never have such another chance."

"This is a capital night to go," remarked Frank, "because there is a new riding-woman; and you can take a lesson, Miss Coventry, in case you should wish to perform in public." Cousin John could not possibly hold out against all three; and although I think in his heart he did not entirely approve, the carriage was ordered, the bill paid, and we were rolling along through the cool summer night en route for Vauxhall.

"My dear," said Lady Scapegrace to me as we sidled through the entrance of that place of amusement, and the gentlemen remained behind to pay, "you are doing anything but what I told you; scarcely three words have you spoken to your cousin, who, by the way, is very pleasant. I think I shall take him up and improve him on my own account; but as for you, my dear, I can see plainly it's all over with you."

"And you really leave town to-morrow?" said Frank as we walked arm in arm up one of those shaded alleys which lead to the "Hermit," or the "Gipsy," or some other excuse for a tÊte-À-tÊte not too much under the lamps. By the way, why is it that a party never can keep together at Vauxhall? Lady Scapegrace and I had particularly stipulated that we were not to separate under any circumstances. "Whatever happens, do let us keep together," we mutually implored at least ten times during the first five minutes, and yet no sooner did we pair off arm in arm than the distance began gradually to increase, till we found ourselves in "couples," totally independent of each other's proceedings. In this manner we saw the horsemanship, and the acrobats, and the man with the globe, and all the other eccentricities of the circus. I really think I could have ridden quite as nicely as Madame Rose d'Amour had I been mounted on an equally well-broken animal with the one which curvetted and caracoled under that much-rouged and widely-smiling dame. They do look pretty too at a little distance those histrionic horsewomen, with their trappings and their spangles and their costume of Francis I. I often wonder whether people really rode out hawking, got up so entirely regardless of expense, in the days of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. From the horsemanship we went to see the people dance, which they did with a degree of vigour and hilarity such as might be introduced in a modified form with great advantage into good society; and here we came across Cousin John and Lady Scapegrace just in time to witness a short and abrupt interview between the latter and Sir Guy. Yes, there was Sir Guy, with the flower in his mouth and all, dancing, actually dancing—and he can't be much less than sixty—with a little smart lady, wearing the most brilliant colour and the blackest eyelashes and the reddest lips and the lightest eyes I ever saw upon a human being. The little lady, whose hair, moreover, was dressed À l'ImpÉratrice, thereby imparting additional boldness to a countenance not remarkable for modesty, frisked and whisked round Sir Guy with a vivacity that must have been of Parisian growth; whilst the Baronet laboured ponderously along with true British determination, like a man who habitually wears very thick shoes and is used to take his own time. In the course of his evolutions he brought his foot down heavily on the skirt of a lady's dress, and turning round to apologize found himself face to face with his wife! To do him justice he was not the least taken aback—anger rather than confusion seemed to be his dominant feeling; and although he tried to smother a rising oath in a laugh, or rather a grin, it was such a muscular contraction of the mouth as does not give me the idea of a smile.

"Come out for a lark too, my lady, hey?" said the Baronet, studiously interposing his large person between "my lady" and his partner. "Reminds one of Paris; dance with anybody, whether one knows them or not." And Sir Guy tried to look as if he was telling the truth with indifferent success. But Lady Scapegrace's face was a perfect study; I never saw a countenance so expressive of scorn—intense scorn—and yet, as it seemed to me, not so much of him as of herself.

"I am glad you amuse yourself, Sir Guy," she said very quietly; but her lip was as white as ashes while she spoke. "I should think this place must suit you exactly. Mr. Jones, we shall be late for the fireworks." And she swept on, taking no further notice of the discomfited Sir Guy, whilst Frank and I followed in her wake, feeling rather awkward even at witnessing this ill-timed rencontre.

"And so you leave town to-morrow, Miss Coventry?" said Frank; and I thought his voice shook a little whilst he spoke. "I shall ride down Lowndes Street every day, and think how deserted it looks. No more walks in the morning for me, no more pleasant rides in the afternoons; I shall send my hacks home and sulk by myself, for I shall be miserable when my friends are gone. Do you know, Miss Coventry"—I listened, all attention; how could I tell what he might not be going to say?—"do you know that I have never had courage to ask you something till to-night?" (Goodness! I thought, now it's coming, and my heart beat as it does when I'm going out hunting.) "I want you to give me" (a lock of my hair, thinks I. Well, I don't know; perhaps I may)—"I want you to give me—Miss Horsingham's receipt for making barley-water; but I know it's a long business to write out, and I'm afraid of being troublesome." So that was all, was it? I felt half inclined to laugh, and more than half inclined to cry; but turning round I was somewhat consoled to find Lady Scapegrace and her cavalier close behind us; and I do confess I rather attributed Frank's extremely moderate request to their immediate vicinity; there was no opportunity, however, of renewing the subject. John had said all he had to say to his companion. John soon gets high and dry with these smart ladies, and they seem mutually tired of each other; so we got the carriage and took our departure, Frank pressing my hand as he bade me farewell, and whispering, "Au revoir, Miss Coventry; something tells me it won't be very long before we meet again." What could he mean?