d
spoken of the Countess of Fleetwood's hatred of the title of Dowager.
But when Lady Fleetwood had the fact from the admiral, would she forbear
to excite him? If she repudiated it, she would provoke him to fire 'one
of his broadsides,'--as they said in the family, to assert its and that
might exhaust him; and there was peril in that. And who was guilty? Mrs.
Carthew confessed her guilt, asking how it could have been avoided. She
made appeal to Gower on his return, transfixing him.

Not only is he no philosopher who has an idol, he has to learn that he
cannot think rationally; his due sense of weight and measure is lost,
the choice of his thoughts as well. He was in the house with his
devoutly, simply worshipped, pearl of women, and his whole mind fell
to work without ado upon the extravagant height of the admiral's
shirt-collar cutting his ears. The very beating of his heart was
perplexed to know whether it was for rapture or annoyance. As a result
he was but histrionically master of himself when the Countess Livia or
the nimbus of the lady appeared in the room.

She received his bow; she directed Mrs. Carthew to have the doctor
summoned immediately. The remorseful woman flew.

'Admiral Fakenham is very ill, Mr. Woodseer, he has had distracting
news. Oh, no, the messenger is not blamed. You are Lord Fleetwood's
friend and will not allow him to be prejudged. He will be in town
shortly. I know him well, you know him; and could you hear him accused
of cruelty--and to a woman? He is the soul of chivalry. So, in his
way, is the admiral. If he were only more patient! Let us wait for Lord
Fleetwood's version. I am certain it will satisfy me. The admiral
wishes you to step up to him. Be very quiet; you will be; consent to
everything. I was unaware of his condition: the things I heard were
incredible. I hope the doctor will not delay. Now go. Beg to retire
soon.'

Livia spoke under her breath; she had fears.

Admiral Baldwin lay in his bed, submitting to a nurse-woman-sign of
extreme exhaustion. He plucked strength from the sight of Gower and
bundled the woman out of the room, muttering: 'Kill myself? Not half
so quick as they'd do it. I can't rest for that Whitechapel of yours.
Please fetch pen and paper: it's a letter.'

The letter began, 'Dear Lady Arpington.'

The dictation of it came in starts. Atone moment it seemed as if life's
ending shook the curtains on our stage and were about to lift. An old
friend in the r