the proposal accepted by her brother. She could have vowed to herself
that she wrote sincerely.

"He must want a secretary. He would be shy at an offer of one from me. Do
you hint it, if you get a chance. You gave us Mr. Weyburn, and Mr. Eglett
and I like him. Ormont would too, I am certain. You have obliged him
before; this will be better than anything you have done for us. It will
stop the Memoirs, or else give them a polish. Your young friend has made
me laugh over stuff taken for literature until we put on our spectacles.
Leo jogs along in harness now, and may do some work at school yet."

Having posted her letter, she left the issue to chance, as we may when
conscience is easy. An answer came the day before Weyburn's departure.
Arthur Abner had met Lord Ormont in the street, had spoken of the rumour
of Memoirs promised to the world, hinted at the possible need for a
secretary; "Lord Ormont would appoint a day to see Mr. Weyburn."

Lady Charlotte considered that to be as good as the engagement.

"So we keep you in the family," she said. "And now look here: you ought
to know my brother's ways, if you're going to serve him. You'll have to
guess at half of everything he tells you; he'll expect you to know the
whole. There's no man so secret. Why? He fears nothing; I can't tell why.
And what his mouth shuts on, he exposes as if in his hand. Of course he's
proud, and good reason. You'll see when you mustn't offend. A lady's in
the house--I hear of it. She takes his name, they say. She may be a
respectable woman--I've heard no scandal. We have to hear of a Lady
Ormont out of Society! We have to suppose it means there's not to be a
real one. He can't marry if he has allowed her to go about bearing his
name. She has a fool of an aunt, I'm told; as often in the house as not.
Good proof of his fondness for the woman, if he swallows half a year of
the aunt! Well, you won't, unless you've mere man's eyes, be able to help
seeing him trying to hide what he suffers from that aunt. He bears it,
like the man he is; but woe to another betraying it! She has a tongue
that goes like the reel of a rod, with a pike bolting out of the shallows
to the snag he knows--to wind round it and defy you to pull. Often my
brother Rowsley and I have fished the day long, and in hard weather, and
brought home a basket; and he boasted of it more than of anything he has
ever done since. That woman holds him away from me now. I say no harm of
her. She