“The Count Pracontal, my Lady,” said a very grave-looking groom of the chambers, as Lady Augusta sat watching a small golden squirrel swinging by his tail from the branch of a camellia tree.

“Say I am engaged, Hislop—particularly engaged. I do not receive—or, wait; tell him I am much occupied, but if he is quite sure his visit shall not exceed five minutes, he may come in.”

Count Pracontal seemed as though the permission had reached his own ears, for he entered almost immediately, and, bowing deeply and deferentially, appeared to wait leave to advance further into the room.

“Let me have my chocolate, Hislop;” and, as the man withdrew, she pointed to a chair, and said, “There. When did you come back?”

Pracontal, however, had dropped on his knee before her, and pressed her hand to his lips with a fervid devotion, saying, “How I have longed and waited for this moment!”

“I shall ring the bell, sir, if you do not be seated immediately. I asked when you returned?”

“An hour ago, my Lady—less than an hour ago. I did not dare to write; and then I wished to be myself the bearer of my own good news.”

“What good news are these?”

“That I have, if not won my suit, secured the victory. The registries have been discovered—found in the very spot indicated in the journal. The entries are complete; and nothing is wanting to establish the legality of the marriage. Oh, I entreat you, do not listen to me so coldly! You know well for what reason I prize this success. You know well what gives its brightest lustre in my eyes.”

“Pray be narrative now—the emotional can be kept for some other time. Who says that this means success?”

“My lawyer, Mr. Kelson. He calls the suit won. He proves his belief, for he has advanced me money to pay off my debt to Longworth, and to place me in a position of ease and comfort.”

“And what is Kelson; is he one of the judges?”

“Of course not. He is one of the leading solicitors of London; a very grave, thoughtful, cautious man. I have shown you many of his letters. You must remember him.”

“No; I never remember people; that is, if they have not personally interested me. I think you have grown thin. You look as if you had been ill.”

“I have fretted a good deal,—worried myself; and my anxiety about you has made me sleepless and feverish.”

“About me! Why, I was never better in my life.”

“Your looks say as much; but I meant my anxiety to lay my tidings at your feet, and with them myself and my whole future.”

“You may leave the chocolate there, Hislop,” as the man entered with the tray; “unless Count Pracontal would like some.”

“Thanks, my Lady,” said he, bowing his refusal.

“You are wrong, then,” said she, as the servant withdrew. “Hislop makes it with the slightest imaginable flavor of the cherry laurel; and it is most soothing. Is n't he a love?”

“Hislop?”

“No, my darling squirrel yonder. The poor dear has been ill these two days. He bit Sir Marcus Guff, and that horrid creature seems to have disagreed with the darling, for he has pined ever since. Don't caress him; he hates men, except Monsignore Alberti, whom, probably, he mistakes for an old lady. And what becomes of all the Bramleighs—are they left penniless?”

“By no means. I do not intend to press my claim farther than the right to the estates. I am not going to proceed for—I forget the legal word—the accumulated profits. Indeed, if Mr. Bramleigh be only animated by the spirit I have heard attributed to him, there is no concession that I am not disposed to make him.”

“What droll people Frenchmen are! They dash their morality, like their cookery, with something discrepant. They fancy it means 'piquancy.' What, in the name of all romance, have you to do with the Bramleighs? Why all this magnanimity for people who certainly have been keeping you out of what was your own, and treating your claim to it as a knavery?”

“You might please to remember that we are related.”

“Of course you are nothing of the kind. If you be the true prince, the others must be all illegitimate a couple of generations back. Perhaps I am imbittered against them by that cruel fraud practised on myself. I cannot bring myself to forgive it. Now, if you really were that fine generous creature you want me to believe, it is of me, of me, Lady Augusta Bramleigh, you would be thinking all this while: how to secure me that miserable pittance they called my settlement; how to recompense me for the fatal mistake I made in my marriage; how to distinguish between the persons who fraudulently took possession of your property, and the poor harmless victim of their false pretensions.”

“And is not this what I am here for? Is it not to lay my whole fortune at your feet?”

“A very pretty phrase, that does n't mean anything like what it pretends; a phrase borrowed from a vaudeville, and that ought to be restored to where it came from.”

“Lord and Lady Culduff, my Lady, wish to pay their respects.”

“They are passing through,” said Lady Augusta, reading the words written in pencil on the card presented by the servant. “Of course I must see them. You need n't go away, Count; but I shall not present you. Yes, Hislop, tell her Ladyship I am at home. I declare, you are always compromising me. Sit over yonder, and read your newspaper, or play with Felice.”

She had barely finished these instructions when the double door was flung wide, and Marion swept proudly in. Her air and toilet were both queenlike; and, indeed, her beauty was not less striking than either. Lord Culduff followed, a soft pleasant smile on his face. It might do service in many ways, for it was equally ready to mean sweetness or sarcasm, as occasion called for.

When the ladies had kissed twice, and his Lordship had saluted Lady Augusta with a profound respect, dashed with a sort of devotion, Marion's eyes glanced at the stranger, who, though he arose, and only reseated himself as they sat down, neither lifted his glance nor seemed to notice them further.

“We are only going through; we start at two o'clock,” said she, hurriedly.

“At one-forty, my Lady,” said Lord Culduff, with a faint smile, as though shocked at being obliged to correct her.

“It was so kind of you to come,” said Lady Augusta; “and you only arrived this morning?”

“We only arrived half an hour ago.”

“I must order you some lunch. I'm sure you can eat something.”

“My Lady is hungry; she said so as we came along,” said Lord Culduff. “Allow me to ring for you. As for myself, I take Liebig's lozenges and a spoonful of CuraÇoa—nothing else—before dinner.”

“It's so pleasant to live with people who are 'dieted,'” said Marion, with a sneering emphasis on the word.

“So I hear from Bramleigh,” interposed Lord Culduff, “that this man—I forget his name—actually broke into the house at Casteilo, and carried away a quantity of papers.”

“My Lord, as your Lordship is so palpably referring to me, and as I am quite sure you are not aware of my identity, may I hasten to say I am Count Pracontal de Bramleigh?”

“Oh, dear! have I forgotten to present you?” said Lady Augusta, with a perfect simplicity of manner.

Marion acknowledged the introduction by the slightest imaginable bow, and a look of cold defiance; while Lord Culduff smiled blandly, and professed his regret if he had uttered a word that could occasion pain.

“Love and war are chartered libertines, and why not law?” said the Viscount. “I take it that all stratagems are available; the great thing is, they should be successful.”

“Count Pracontal declares that he can pledge himself to the result,” said Lady Augusta. “The case, in fact, as he represents it, is as good as determined.”

“Has a jury decided, then?” asked Culduff.

“No, my Lord; the trial comes on next term. I only repeat the assurance given me by my lawyer; and so far confirmed by him that he has made me large advances, which he well knows I could not repay if I should not gain my cause.”

“These are usually cautious people,” said the Viscount, gravely.

“It strikes me,” said Marion, rising, “that this sort of desultory conversation on a matter of such importance is, to say the least, inconvenient. Even the presence of this gentleman is not sufficient to make me forget that my family have always regarded his pretension as something not very far from a fraud.”

“I regret infinitely, madam,” said Pracontal, bowing low, “that it is not a man has uttered the words just spoken.”

“Lady Culduff's words, sir, are all mine,” said Lord Culduff.

“I thank your Lordship from my heart for the relief you have afforded me.”

“There must be nothing of this kind,” said Lady Augusta, warmly. “If I have been remiss in not making Count Pracontal known to you before, let me repair my error by presenting him now as a gentleman who makes me the offer of his hand.”

“I wish you good-morning,” said Marion. “No, thank you; no luncheon. Your Ladyship has given me fully as much for digestion as I care for. Good-bye.”

“If my congratulations could only shadow forth a vision of all the happiness I wish your Ladyship,” began Lord Culduff.

“I think I know, my Lord, what you would say,” broke she in, laughingly. “You would like to have uttered something very neat on well-assorted unions. There could be no better authority on such a subject; but Count Pracontal is toleration itself: he lets me tell my friends that I am about to marry him for money, just as I married poor Colonel Bramleigh for love.”

“I am waiting for you, my Lord. We have already trespassed too far on her Ladyship's time and occupations.” The sneering emphasis on the last word was most distinct. Lord Culduff kissed Lady Augusta's hand with a most devoted show of respect, and slowly retired.

As the door closed after them, Pracontal fell at her feet, and covered her hand with kisses.

“There, there, Count, I have paid a high price for that piece of impertinence I have just uttered; but when I said it, I thought it would have given her an apoplexy.”

“But you are mine,—you are my own!”

“Noud en parlerons. The papers are full of breaches of promise; and if you want me to keep mine, you 'll not make it odious to me by tormenting me about it.”

“But, my Lady, I have a heart; a heart that would be broken by a betrayal.”

“What a strange heart for a Frenchman! About as suitable to the Boulevards Italiens as snow shoes to the tropics. Monsieur de Pracontal,” said she, in a much graver tone, “please to bear in mind that I am a very considerable item in such an arrangement as we spoke of. The whole question is not what would make you happy.”

Pracontal bowed low in silence; his gesture seemed to accept her words as a command to be obeyed, and he did not utter a syllable.

“Is n't she handsome?” cried she, at length. “I declare, Count, if one of your countrywomen had a single one of the charms of that beautiful face she 'd be turning half the heads in Europe; and Marion can do nothing with them all, except drive other women wild with envy.”