speak out plainly, the memory of past love
and past kindness prevailed with her; the next words died away on her
lips. She could only hold up the letter.

Lady Janet declined to see the letter. Lady Janet suddenly became
absorbed in the arrangement of her bracelets.

"I know what you daren't acknowledge, you foolish child!" she exclaimed.
"You daren't acknowledge that you are tired of this dull house. My dear!
I am entirely of your opinion--I am weary of my own magnificence; I long
to be living in one snug little room, with one servant to wait on me.
I'll tell you what we will do. We will go to Paris, in the first place.
My excellent Migliore, prince of couriers, shall be the only person in
attendance. He shall take a lodging for us in one of the unfashionable
quarters of Paris. We will rough it, Grace (to use the slang phrase),
merely for a change. We will lead what they call a 'Bohemian life.' I
know plenty of writers and painters and actors in Paris--the liveliest
society in the world, my dear, until one gets tired of them. We will
dine at the restaurant, and go to the play, and drive about in shabby
little hired carriages. And when it begins to get monotonous (which it
is only too sure to do!) we will spread our wings and fly to Italy, and
cheat the winter in that way. There is a plan for you! Migliore is in
town. I will send to him this evening, and we will start to-morrow."

Mercy made another effort.

"I entreat your ladyship to pardon me," she resumed. "I have something
serious to say. I am afraid--"

"I understand. You are afraid of crossing the Channel, and you don't
like to acknowledge it. Pooh! The passage barely lasts two hours; we
will shut ourselves up in a private cabin. I will send at once--the
courier may be engaged. Ring the bell."

"Lady Janet, I must submit to my hard lot. I cannot hope to associate
myself again with any future plans of yours--"

"What! you are afraid of our 'Bohemian life' in Paris? Observe this,
Grace! If there is one thing I hate more than another, it is 'an old
head on young shoulders.' I say no more. Ring the bell."

"This cannot go on, Lady Janet! No words can say how unworthy I feel of
your kindness, how ashamed I am--"

"Upon my honor, my dear, I agree with you. You _ought_ to be ashamed, at
your age, of making me get up to ring the bell."

Her obstinacy was immovable; she attempted to rise from the couch. But
one choice was left to Mercy. She anticipated Lady Ja