"No, my lady."

"Surely she has settled down in her new place?"

The steward coughed, a little hesitating cough.

"Nothing--"

Lady Lisle stopped and glanced at Sydney, who turned away and became
very much interested in one of the pictures, but with his ears twitching
the while.

"Oh, no, my lady," said the steward, quickly; "only I fear that your
ladyship has been imposed upon?"

Syd moved to the mantelpiece and began to examine the mechanism of a
magnificent skeleton clock.

"Imposed upon? But the girl has gone to the situation in town?"

"Ahem! No, my lady; the report I hear is that she has gone to fulfil an
engagement with some dramatic agent who trains young people for--"

"The theatre?"

"No, my lady, for the music-halls."

"Oh!" ejaculated Lady Lisle. "Dreadful--dreadful!"

Syd's face was a study in the mirror behind the clock, as he placed one
foot on the polished kerb and screwed up his mouth, listening with all
his might.

"Yes, my lady, it is very sad. But I'm afraid that several of the
better-looking girls in the neighbourhood have had their heads turned by
the great success which has attended a Miss Mary Ann Simpkins in
London."

_Crash_!

"Good gracious me!" cried Lady Lisle, starting up at the noise.

"It's nothing, auntie," cried Syd, excitedly. "Foot slipped on the
fender--nothing broken."

The boy turned, with his face flushed, and his voice sounded husky.

"But that vase you knocked over, my dear?"

"It was trying to save myself, auntie. It isn't even cracked."

"But you've hurt yourself, my child?"

"Oh, no, auntie, not a bit," said the boy, with a forced laugh.

"Pray be careful, my dear."

"All right, auntie," said the boy, and he stooped down to begin
rearranging the poker and shovel, which he had kicked off the fire-dog
to clatter on the encaustic tiles.

"Pray go on, Mr Trimmer. How grievous that such a scandal should befall
our peaceful village. A Miss--er--Miss--"

"Mary Ann Simpkins, my lady."

"Simpkins, Simpkins? Surely I know the name?"

"Yes, my lady, and I daresay you've seen her at Tilborough. Very pretty
girl--daughter of Sam Simpkins."

"What, at the hotel?"

"Yes, my lady," said the agent, with sad deference. "He is the trainer
and keeper of racing stables--Tilborough Arms."

"Yes, yes, I know. Ah! what a home for the poor girl! No wonder. But
you said something about turning the girls' heads."

"Yes, my lady. She went into