d; be a
good girl, and do as you're bid--pop your bonnet on. Shall I lend you
an extra shawl? There, you may give my 'old man' a kiss, if you like.
Bless him! he's gone fast asleep. Good-night, Kate; mind you come to
luncheon to-morrow, there's a dear." So saying, Mrs. Lumley bid me a
most affectionate farewell; and I found myself leaning on John's arm,
to walk home through the clear frosty night.

I do like perambulating London streets by gaslight--of course with a
gentleman to take care of one. It is so much pleasanter than being
stewed up in a brougham. How I wish it was the fashion for people to
take their bonnets out to dinner with them, and walk back in the cool
fresh air! If it is delightful even in winter, how much more so in the
hot summer nights of the season! Your spirits rise and your nerves
brace themselves as you inhale the midnight air, with all its smoky
particles, pure by comparison with that which has just been poisoning
you in a crowded drawing-room. Your cavalier asks leave to indulge in
his "weed," and you enjoy its fragrance at second-hand as he puffs
contentedly away and chats on in that prosy, confidential sort of
manner which no _man_ ever succeeds in assuming, save with a cigar in
his mouth. John lit his, of course, but was less communicative, to my
fancy, than usual. After asking me if I had "enjoyed a pleasant
evening," and whether "I _preferred_ walking," he relapsed into a
somewhat constrained silence. I too walked on without speaking. Much
as I love the night, it always makes me rather melancholy; and I dare
say we should have got to Lowndes Street without exchanging a
syllable, had not some imp of mischief prompted me to cross-examine my
cousin a little upon his _sejour_ in Wales, and to quiz him half
spitefully on his supposed _penchant_ for pretty Fanny Lloyd. John
_rose_ freely in a moment.

"I know where you pick up all this nonsense, Kate," he burst out quite
savagely; "I know where half the scandal and half the mischief in
London originates! With that odious woman whose house we have just
quitted, whose tongue cannot be still for a single moment; who never
by any chance speaks a word of truth, and who is seldom so happy as
when she is making mischief. I pity that poor decrepit husband of
hers, though he ought to keep her in better order; yet it _is_ a hard
case upon any man to be tied to such a Jezebel as _that_."

"The Jezebel, as you call her, John," I interposed quietly, "is m