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CHAPTER XXIX. MR. M’KINLAY IS PUZZLED

Mr. M’Kinlay was at his breakfast the next day when he received the following letter from Sir Gervais Vyner:

“Rome, Palazzo Altieri.

“My dear M’Kinlay, – Lady Vyner’s mother insists on seeing Ada out here, and will not listen to anything, either on the score of the season or the long journey. I cannot myself venture to be absent for more than a few days at a time; and I must entreat of you to give Mademoiselle and my daughter a safe convoy as far as Marseilles, where I shall meet you. I know well how very inconvenient it may prove to you, just as term is about to open, so pray make me deeply your debtor for the service in all ways. My sister-in-law informs me – but so vaguely that I cannot appreciate the reasons – that Mademoiselle H. does not advise Miss O’Hara should accompany them. It will be for you to learn the grounds of this counsel, and, if you concur with them, to make a suitable arrangement for that young lady’s maintenance and education in England, unless, indeed, her friends require her to return home. To whatever you decide, let money be no obstacle. There are good schools at Brighton, I believe. If her friends prefer a French education, Madame Gosselin’s, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris, is well spoken of. See Sir Within Wardle on the subject, who, besides being her guardian, is well qualified to direct your steps.

“I cannot tell you how much I am provoked by what I must call this failure in a favourite project, nor is my annoyance the less that I am not permitted to know how, when, or why the failure has been occasioned. All that Miss Courtenay will tell me is, ‘She must not come out to Italy,’ and that I shall be the first to agree to the wisdom of this decision when I shall hear the reasons for it. Of course all this is between ourselves, and with Sir Within you will limit yourself to the fact that her education will be more carefully provided for by remaining north of the Alps – a truth he will, I am certain, recognise.

“Be sure, however, to get to the bottom of this, I may call it – mystery, for up to this I have regarded Ada’s progress in learning, and great improvement in spirits, as entirely owing to this very companionship.

“Drop me a line to say if you can start on Monday or Tuesday, and at the Pavilion Hotel you will either find me on your arrival, or a note to say when to expect me. Tell Sir Within from me, that I will accept any trouble he shall take with Miss O’H. as a direct personal favour. I am not at all satisfied with the part we are taking towards this girl; nor shall I be easy until I hear from you that all is arranged to her own liking, and the perfect satisfaction of her family. I think, indeed, you should write to Mr. L., at Arran; his concurrence ought to be secured, as a formality; and he’ll not refuse it, if not linked to something troublesome or inconvenient.

“I shall be curious to hear your personal report of Miss O’Hara, so take care to fit yourself for a very searching cross-examination from

“Yours faithfully,

“Gervais Vyner.

“I hear that the people have just thrown down the walls of my new lodge in Derryvaragh, and vowed that they’ll not permit any one to build there. Are they mad? Can they not see that a proprietor, if he ever should come there, must be of use to them, and that all the benefit would be theirs? Grenfell laughs at me, and says he predicted it all. Perhaps he did: at all events, I shall not be deterred from going on, though neither of my Irish experiences have as yet redounded to my vainglory.

“I have not the shadow of a reason for suspecting it, still you would confer a favour on me if you could assure me, of your own knowledge, that nothing weightier than a caprice has induced Mademoiselle to recommend that Miss O’H. should not come out here with my daughter.

“All of this letter is to be regarded private and confidential.”

Scarcely had M’Kinlay finished the reading of this letter, than a servant presented him with a small note, sealed with a very large impress of the Wardle arms, and bearing a conspicuous W. W. on the outer corner. Its contents ran thus:

“My dear Mr. M’Kinlay, – Will you allow me to profit by the fortunate accident of your presence in these regions to bespeak the honour and pleasure of your company at a tête-à-tête dinner with me to-day? My carriage will await your orders; and if perfectly in accordance with your convenience, I would beg that they may be to take you over here by an early hour – say four o’clock – as I am desirous of obtaining the benefit of your advice.

“I am very sincerely yours,

“Within Wardle.”

“How provoking!” cried Mr. M’Kinlay; “and I meant to have caught the night-mail at Wrexham.”

Now Mr. M’Kinlay was not either provoked or disappointed. It had never been his intention to have left the Cottage till the day after; and as to a dinner invitation to Dalradern, and with “the contingent remainder” of a consultation, it was in every respect the direct opposite of all that is provoking. Here he was alone. None heard, him as he said these words. This hypocrisy was not addressed to any surrounders. It was the soliloquy of a man who liked self-flattery, and, strange as it may seem, there are scores of people who mix these sweet little draughts for themselves and toss them off in secresy, like solitary drinkers, and then go out into the world refreshed and stimulated by their dram.

“I cannot take his agency, if that’s what he is at,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, as he stood with his back to the fire and fingered the seals of his watch; “I am overworked already – sorely overworked. Clients, now-a-days, I find, have got the habit of employing their lawyers in a variety of ways quite foreign to their callings.” This was a hit at Sir Gervais for his request to take Ada abroad. “A practice highly to be condemned, and, in fact, to be put down. It is not dignified; and I doubt if even it be profitable,” – his tone was now strong and severe. “A fine old place, Dalradern,” muttered he, as his eyes fell upon a little engraving of the castle at the top of the note – such vignettes were rarer at that day than at the present – “I think, really, I will give myself a holiday and dine with him. I thought him a bit of a fop – an old fop, too – when I met him here; but he may ‘cut up’ better under his own roof.”

“Rickards,” said he, as that bland personage entered to remove the breakfast-things, “I am not going to dine here to-day.”

“Lor, Sir! You an’t a going so soon?”

“No. To-morrow, perhaps – indeed, I should say to-morrow certainly; but to-day I must dine at Dalradern.”

“Well, Sir, you’ll tell me when you comes home if he’s better than Mrs. Byles for his side-dishes; for I’ll never believe it, Sir, till I have it from a knowledgeable gentleman like yourself. Not that I think, Sir, they will play off any of their new-fangled tricks on you – putting cheese into the soup, and powdered sugar over the peas.”

“I have seen both in Paris,” said M’Kinlay, gravely.

“And frogs too, Sir, and snails; and Jacob, that was out in Italy with the saddle-horses, says, he seen fifteen shillings given for a hedgehog, when lamb got too big.”

“Let Mademoiselle Heinzleman know that I should be glad to speak to her,” said the lawyer, who, feeling that he was going to dine out, could afford to be distant.

“Yes, Sir, I’ll tell her;” and Rickards stirred the fire, and drew down a blind here, and drew up another there, and fidgeted about in that professionally desultory manner his order so well understand. When he got to the door, however, he stepped back, and in a low confidential whisper said, “It’s the ‘Ock, Sir, the ‘Ock, at Dalradem, that beats us; eighty odd years in bottle, and worth three guineas a flask.” He sighed as he went out, for the confession cost him dear. It was like a Government whip admitting that his party must be beaten on the next division!

Mr. M’Kinlay was deep in a second perusal of Sir Gervais Vyner’s letter when Mademoiselle Heinzleman entered. “I have a few lines from Sir Gervais here, Mademoiselle,” said he, pompously, for the invitation to Dalradem was still fresh in his mind. “He wishes me, if it be at all possible, to accompany you and Miss Vyner as far as, let me see” – and he opened the letter – “as far as Marseilles. I own, with whatever pride I should accept the charge, however charmed I should naturally feel at the prospect of a journey in such company – ”

“Es macht nichts. I mean, Sare,” said she, impetuously, “with Franz, the courier, we can travel very well all alone.”

“If you will permit me, Mademoiselle,” said he, haughtily, to finish my phrase, “you will find that, notwithstanding my many and pressing engagements, and the incessant demands which the opening of term makes upon my time, it is my intention not to refuse this – this, I shall call it favour – for it is favour – to my respected client. Can you be ready by Monday?”

“We are Wednesday now! Yes; but of Mademoiselle Kate, what of her? Does she come with us?”

“I opine not,” said he, gravely.

“And where she go to?” said she, with an eagerness which occasionally marred the accuracy of her expression.

“Sir Gervais has suggested that we may take one of two courses, Mademoiselle,” said he, and probably something in the phrase reminded M’Kinlay of a well-known statesman, for he unconsciously extended an arm, and with the other lifted his coat-skirt behind him, “or, it is even possible, adopt a third.”

“This means, she is not to come with us, Sir.”

Mr. M’Kinlay bowed his concurrence. “You see, Mademoiselle,” said he, authoritatively, “it was a mistake from the beginning, and though I warned Sir Gervais that it must be a mistake, he would have his way; he thought she would be a means of creating emulation.”

“So she has, Sir.”

“I mean, wholesome emulation; the generous rivalry – the – the – in fact, that she would excite Miss Vyner to a more vigorous prosecution of her studies, without that discouragement that follows a conscious – what shall I call it – not inferiority?”

“Yes, inferiority.”

“This, I am aware, Mademoiselle, was your view; the letter I hold here from Miss Courtenay shows me the very painful impression your opinion has produced; nor am I astonished at the warmth – and there is warmth – with which she observes: ‘Mademoiselle H. is under a delusion if she imagines that my brother-in-law was about to establish a nursery for prodigies. If the pigeon turns out to be an eagle, the sooner it is out of the dovecot the better.’ Very neatly and very smartly put. ‘If the pigeon – ’”

“Enough of the pigeon, Sare. Where is she to go? who will take her in charge?”

“I have not fully decided on the point, Mademoiselle, but by this evening I hope to have determined upon it; for the present, I have only to apprise you that Miss O’Hara is not to go to Italy, and that whatever arrangement should be necessary for her – either to remain in England, or to return to her family, will be made as promptly possible.”

“And who will take her in charge, Sare?” said she, repeating the former question.

Mr. M’Kinlay laid his hand over the region of his heart, and bowed; but whether he meant that he himself would undertake the guardianship of the young lady, or that the matter was a secret enclosed in his own breast, is not at all easy to say.

“May I speak to her about this?”

“Not until I shall see you again; but you may take all such measures as may prepare her for her sudden departure.”

Mr. M’Kinlay was, throughout the brief interview, more despotic than gallant. He was not quite satisfied that the mission was one in perfect accordance with his high professional dignity, and so to relieve himself from any self-reproach, he threw a dash of severity through his condescension.

“I suppose,” said he, superbly – “I suppose she has clothes?”

Mademoiselle stared at this, but did not reply.

“I am somewhat unaccustomed, as you may perceive, Mademoiselle, to these sort of affairs; I know nothing of young ladies’ wardrobes. I simply asked, was she in a position to travel, if called on, at a brief notice?”

“My poor Kate! my poor Kate!” was all that the governess could utter.

“I must say, Mademoiselle,” said he, pompously, “that, looking to what she originally came from, and taking into account the care and cost bestowed upon her, I do not perceive this to be a case that calls for any deep commiseration.”

“Poor child! poor child!” stammered she out; and, unable to control her emotion, she arose and left the room.

“Rickards was right; that artful minx has won them all over. It is high time to send her back to her own country, and, from the brief experience I have had of it, I’ll venture to say all her captivations there will not make many victims. Three o’clock already,” said he, with surprise, “and I had meant to be at Dalradern early.” He rung and ordered the carriage. It had been at the door for above an hour. Strange how the morning should have slipped over; had it been real business, what a deal he could have transacted in the time; but these little “peddling negotiations,” so he called them, ran away with a man’s time before he was aware of it. As he passed through the hall, he saw, through a partly open door, the two girls – they were seated at a table, with their heads bent over a map.

“Yea,” said Ada, “this is the way papa mentions; here is Marseilles, and here, if the sea be rough, is the road we shall have to travel, all along the coast, by Nice and Genoa. Oh, don’t you wish it may be bad weather, Kate?”

M’Kinlay bent his head, but could not catch the words she spoke.

“And I used to fancy you would like it all more than even I did myself,” said Ada, in a tone of reproach.

“It is your lot to enjoy everything, and to have everything to enjoy,” said Kate; “and mine is – no matter what it is – let us have a stroll in the garden.”

M’Kinlay had just time to move on ere they arose, and, passing out, he got into the carriage and drove away.

CHAPTER XXX. SCANDAL

It was half-past four as Mr. M’Kinlay drove into the court-yard at Dalradern. Sir Within’s note had said four o’clock, an early dinner, and Sir Within himself could be seen, at an oriel window, watch in hand, as the carriage passed under the arched entrance. Now, though it was part of Mr. M’Kinlay’s usual tactics never to “cheapen himself,” he felt he might by possibility have erred on the opposite side on this occasion, and he prepared to make some excuses for his delay, the letters he had read, the replies he was forced to make, and such like.

The old Baronet heard these apologies with a most polished urbanity, he bowed a continual acquiescence, and then ordered dinner.

“I had hoped for a little daylight, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said he, “to have shown you some of my pictures, which are only worth seeing when they have got sun on them. Are you fond of the arts?”

“Passionately, Sir Within; devotedly, if a man so ignorant may dare to say so.”

“Then, I must only hope for better fortune on another occasion, and that you will give me an entire morning, if you will not graciously make me a visit of some days.”

“Oh, Sir.”

“I think,” continued he – “I think I could requite you. My Van Eyks are accounted the best of any private collection; and one at least of my Albert Durers will bear comparison with any in the Munich Gallery.”

M’Kinlay muttered something that sounded as if he were firmly persuaded of the fact.

“I know,” added Sir Within, “this sounds a little boastful; but when I shall have told you how I came by this picture – it is called the Queen’s Martyrdom, and represents the Queen Beatrice of Bohemia on a balcony while her lover is going to the scaffold: the king, her husband, has ordered her to throw to him the garland or wreath, which was the privilege of nobles to wear in their last moments – and, I say, when I tell you the history of the picture, you will, perhaps, acquit me of vainglory; and also, when you see it, you will render me a greater service by deciding whether the headsman has not been painted by Cranach. How I wish we had a little daylight, that I might show it to you!”

How grateful was M’Kinlay to the sun for his setting on that evening; never was darkness more welcome, even to him who prayed for night – or Blucher; and, secretly vowing to himself that no casualty should ever catch him there before candlelight, he listened with a bland attention, and pledged his word to any amount of connoisseurship required of him. Still he hoped that this might not be “the case” – the especial case – on which Sir Within had summoned him to give counsel; for, besides being absurd, it would be worse – it would be unprofitable. It was a pleasant interruption to this “art conversation” when dinner was announced. Now did Mr. M’Kinlay find himself more at home when appealed to for his judgment on brown sherry, and the appropriate period at which “Amontillado” could be introduced; but he soon discovered he was in the presence of a master. Dinner-giving was the science of his craft, and Sir Within belonged to that especial school who have always maintained that Brillat Savarin is more to be relied upon than Grotius, and M. Ude a far abler ally than Puffendorf. It was the old envoy’s pleasure on this occasion to put forth much of his strength; both the dinner and the wine were exquisite, and when the entertainment closed with some choice “Hermitage,” which had been an imperial present, the lawyer declared that it was not a dinner to which he had been invited, but a banquet.

“You must run down in your next vacation, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay, and give me a week. I don’t know if you are a sportsman?”

“Not in the least, Sir. I neither shoot, ride, nor fish.”

“Nor do I, and yet I like a country life, as a sort of interlude in existence.”

“With a house like this, Sir Within, what life can compare with it?”

“One can at least have tranquillity,” sighed Sir Within, with an air that made it difficult to say whether he considered it a blessing or the reverse.

“There ought to be a good neighbourhood, too, I should say. I passed some handsome places as I came along.”

“Yes, there are people on every hand, excellent people, I have not a doubt; but they neither suit me, nor I them. Their ways are not mine, nor are their ideas, their instincts, nor their prejudices. The world, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay, is, unfortunately, wider than a Welsh county, though they will not believe it here.”

“You mean, then, Sir Within, that they are local, and narrow-minded in their notions?”

“I don’t like to say that, any more than I like to hear myself called a libertine; but I suppose, after all, it is what we both come to.” The air of self-accusation made the old envoy perfectly triumphant, and, as he passed his hand across his brow and smiled blandly, he seemed to be recalling to mind innumerable successes of the past. “To say truth, diplomacy is not the school for dévots.”

“I should think not, indeed, Sir,” said M’Kinlay.

“And that is what these worthy folk cannot or will not see. Wounds and scars are the necessary incidents of a soldier’s life; but people will not admit that there are moral injuries which form the accidents of a minister’s life, and to which he must expose himself as fearlessly as any soldier that ever marched to battle. What do these excellent creatures here – who have never experienced a more exciting scene than a cattle-show, nor faced a more captivating incident than a Bishop’s visitation – know of the trials, the seductions – the irresistible seductions of the great world? Ah, Mr. M’Kinlay, I could lay bare a very strange chapter of humanity, were I to tell even one-fourth of my own experiences.”

“And an instructive one too, I should say, Sir.”

“In one sense, yes; certainly instructive. You see, Mr. M’Kinlay, with respect to life, it is thus: Men in your profession become conversant with all the material embarrassments and difficulties of families; they know of that crushing bond, or that ruinous mortgage, of the secret loan at fifty per cent., or the drain of hush-money to stop a disclosure, just as the doctor knows of the threatened paralysis or the spreading aneurism; but we men of the world – men of the world par excellence– read humanity in its moral aspect; we study its conflicts, its trials, its weakness, and its fall – I say fall, because such is the one and inevitable end of every struggle.”

“This is a sad view, a very sad view,” said M’Kinlay, who, probably to fortify himself against the depression he felt, drank freely of a strong Burgundy.

“Not so in one respect. It makes us more tolerant, more charitable. There is nothing ascetic in our judgment of people – we deplore, but we forgive.”

“Fine, Sir, very fine – a noble sentiment!” said the lawyer, whose utterance was not by any means so accurate as it had been an hour before.

“Of that relentless persecution of women, for instance, such as you practise it here in England, the great world knows positively nothing. In your blind vindictiveness you think of nothing but penalties, and you seem to walk over the battle-field of life with no other object or care than to search for the wounded and hold them up to shame and torture. Is it not so?”

“I am sure you are right. We are all fal – fal – la – hie, not a doubt of it,” muttered M’Kinlay to himself.

“And remember,” continued Sir Within, “it is precisely the higher organisations, the more finely-attuned temperaments, that are most exposed, and which, from the very excellence of their nature, demand our deepest care and solicitude. With what pains, for instance, would you put together the smashed fragments of a bit of rare Sèvres, concealing the junctures and hiding the flaws, while you would not waste a moment on a piece of vulgar crockery.”

“Pitch it out o’ window at once!” said M’Kinlay, with an almost savage energy.

“So it is. It is with this precious material, finely formed, beautiful in shape, and exquisite in colour, the world has to deal; and how natural that it should treat it with every solicitude and every tenderness. But the analogy holds further. Every connoisseur will tell you that the cracked or fissured porcelain is scarcely diminished in value by its fracture; that when skilfully repaired it actually is almost, if not altogether, worth what it was before.”

M’Kinlay nodded; he was not quite clear how the conversation had turned upon porcelain, but the wine was exquisite, and he was content. “These opinions of mine meet little mercy down here, Mr. M’Kinlay; my neighbours call them Frenchified immoralities, and fifty other hard names; and as for myself, they do not scruple to aver that I am an old rake, come back to live on the recollection of his vices. I except, of course, our friends the Vyners – they judge, and they treat me differently; they are a charming family.”

“Charming!” echoed the lawyer, and seeming by his action to drink their health to himself.

“You know the old line, ‘He jests at wounds that never felt a scar;’ and so have I ever found that it is only amongst those who have suffered one meets true sympathy. What is this curious story” – here he dropped into a low, confidential voice – “about Miss C.? It is a by-gone now-a-days; but how was it? She was to have married a man who had a wife living; or, she did marry him, and discovered it as they were leaving the church? I forget exactly how it went – I mean the story – for I know nothing as to the fact.”

M’Kinlay listened, and through the dull fog of his besotted faculties a faint nickering of light seemed struggling to pierce. The misanthrope at Arran – the once friend, now banished for ever – the name that never was to be uttered – the mystery to be kept from all – and then Georgina’s own sudden outburst of passion on the evening they parted, when he blundered out something about a reparation to Luttrell.

All this, at first confusedly, but by degrees more clearly, passed in review before him, and he thought he had dropped upon a very black page of family history. Though the wine of which he had drank freely had addled, it had not overcome him, and, with the old instincts of his calling, he remembered how all important it is, when extracting evidence, to appear in fall possession of all the facts.

“How, in the name of wonder, Sir Within,” said he, after a long pause – “how did it ever chance that this story reached you?”

“Mr. M’Kinlay, my profession, like your own, has its secret sources of information, and, like you, we hear a great deal, and we believe very little of it.”

“In the present case,” said M’Kinlay, growing clearer every minute, “I take it you believe nothing.”

“How old is Miss O’Hara!” asked Sir William, quietly.

“Oh, Sir Within, you surely don’t mean to – ”

“To what, Mr. M’Kinlay – what is it that I cannot possibly intend?” said he, smiling.

“You would not imply that – that there was anything there?” said he, blundering into an ambiguity that might not commit him irretrievably.

“Haven’t I told you, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay,” said he, with an air of easy familiarity, “that if I am somewhat sceptical, I am very charitable? I can believe a great deal, but I can forgive everything.” “And you really do believe this?” asked M’Kinlay. “Something of it; about as much as Mr. M’Kinlay believes Kate O’Hara is – Let me see,” muttered he, half aloud; “I was at Stuttgard; it was the winter Prince Paul died; we had a court-mourning, and there were no festivities. The Legations received a few intimates, and we exchanged all the contents of our letters – that was sixteen or seventeen years ago; the young lady, I take it, is not far from fifteen.” “Good Heavens, Sir Within, you want to establish a distinct link between this story and the age of the young girl!”

“That is too legal a view, Mr. M’Kinlay; we diplomatists deal in another fashion – we speculate, we never specify. We always act as if everything were possible, and nothing certain; and in our very uncertainty lies our greatest security.”

“At all events, you don’t believe one word of this story?” “When a gentleman so intimately connected with all the secret details of a family history as you are, instead of showing me where and how I am in error, limits himself to an appeal to my incredulity, my reply is, his case is a weak one. She is a most promising creature; she was here yesterday, and I declare I feel half ashamed of myself for thinking her more attractive than my dear old favourite, Ada. What are you going to do about her?”

The suddenness of this question startled M’Kinlay not much, if at all “Did the old Baronet know of the Vyners’ plans? – was he in reality more deeply in their confidence than himself?” – was the lawyer’s first thought. It was clear enough he knew something, whatever that something might mean. To fence with such a master of his weapon would be a lamentable blunder, and M’Kinlay determined on frankness.

“It is the very subject on which I want to consult you, Sir Within. The case is a nice one, and requires nice treatment. The Vyners have determined she is not to go out to Italy.”

“Do they give their reason?”

“No, not exactly a reason. They think – that is, Miss Courtenay thinks – all this is, of course, in strict confidence, Sir Within?”

The old minister bowed an acquiescence, with his hand on his heart.

“As I was observing, then,” resumed M’Kinlay, “Miss Courtenay thinks that the united education scheme has not been a success; that Miss O’Hara has contrived, somehow, to usurp more than her share; that from natural quickness, perhaps, in learning, a greater aptitude for acquirement, she has not merely outstripped but discouraged Miss Vyner – ”

The incredulous surprise that sat on the old Baronet’s face stopped M’Kinlay in his explanation, and he said: “You don’t appear to believe in this, Sir Within?”

“Don’t you think, Sir,” said the old envoy, “that sitting here tête-à-tête as we do now, we could afford to be candid and frank with each other? Does it not strike you that you and I are very like men who could trust each other?”

There was a fine shade of flattery in the collocation that touched the lawyer. It was not every day that he saw himself “brigaded” in such company, and he reddened slightly as he accepted the compliment.

“Let us, then,” resumed the old minister – “let us leave to one side all mention of these young ladies’ peculiar talents and capacities; come to the practical fact that, for reasons into which we are not to inquire, they are to be separated. What do you mean to do by Miss O’Hara?”

Mr. M’Kinlay paused for a few seconds, and then, with the air of one who could not subdue himself to any caution, said: “Whatever you suggest, Sir Within – anything that you advise. You see, Sir,” said he, turning down the corner of Vyner’s letter, and handing it to him to read, “this is what he says: ‘Tell Sir Within from me, that I will accept any trouble he shall take with Miss O’H. as a direct personal favour.’”

Sir Within bowed. It was not the first time he had been shown a “strictly confidential despatch” that meant nothing.

“I think – that is, I suspect – I apprehend the situation,” said he. “The Vyners want to stand in the ‘statu quo ante;’ they have made a mistake, and they see it. Now, what does Mr. M’Kinlay suggest?”

“I’d send her back, Sir Within.”

“Back! Where? To whom?”

“To her friends.”

“To her friends! My dear Mr. M’Kinlay, I thought we had disposed of all that part of the case. Let us be frank – it does save so much time; for friends, read Mr. Luttrell. Now, what if he say, ‘No; you have taken her away, and by your teaching and training unfitted her for such a life as she must lead here; I cannot receive her?’”

“I did not mean Mr. Luttrell; I really spoke of the girl’s family – ”

“You are a treasure of discretion, Sir,” said Sir Within; “but permit me to observe, that the excess of caution often delays a negotiation. You say that she cannot go to Italy, and I say she can as little return to Ireland – at least, without Mr. Luttrell’s acquiescence. Now for the third course?”

“This school Sir Gervais speaks of in Paris,” said M’Kinlay, fumbling for the passage in the letter, for he was now so confused and puzzled that he was very far from feeling calm. “Here is the address – Madame Gosselin, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris. Sir Gervais thought that – with of course your approval – this would be the best course we could take. She would be well treated, well educated, cared for, and eventually qualified to be a governess – if she should not chance to marry.”