unity of
explaining all."

"Explain nothing," was my reply; "we understand each other perfectly.
It is time for me to go in and dress."

So I marched into the house, and left him looking foolish--if Frank
ever _could_ look foolish--on the doorstep. As I hurried along the
passages I encountered Lady Scapegrace.

"What's the matter, Kate?" said she, following me into my room; "you
look as if something had happened. No bad news, I trust, from Aunt
Deborah?"

I burst into tears. Kindness always overcomes me completely, and then
I make a fool of myself.

"Nothing's the matter," I sobbed out; "only I'm tired and nervous,
Lady Scapegrace, and I want to dress."

My hostess slipped quietly out of the room, and presently returned
with some sal volatile and water: she made me drink it every drop.

"I must have a talk to you, Kate," said she, "but not now; the
dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes." And she too hurried away to
perform her toilette.

As I get older I take to moralizing, and I am afraid I waste a good
deal of valuable time in speculating on the thoughts, ideas, and, so
to speak, the inner life of my neighbours. It is curious to observe a
large, well-dressed party seated at dinner, all apparently frank and
open as the day, full of fun and good humour, saying whatever comes
uppermost, and to all outward seeming laying bare every crevice and
cranny of their hearts, and then to reflect that each one of the
throng has a separate life, entirely distinct from that which he or
she parades before the public, cherished perhaps with a miser's care
or endured with a martyr's fortitude. Sir Guy, sitting at the bottom
of his table, drinking rather more wine than usual--perhaps because it
was Sunday, and the enforced decencies of the day had somewhat damped
his spirits--looked a jovial, thoughtless, merry country gentleman,
somewhat slang, it may be, not to say vulgar, but still open-hearted,
joyous, and hospitable. Was there no skeleton in Sir Guy's mental
cupboard? Were there no phantoms that _would_ rise up, like Banquo's
ghost, to their seat, unbidden, at his board? While he smacked his
great lips over those bumpers of dark red Burgundy, had he quite
forgotten the days of old--the friends he had pledged and made fools
of--the kind hearts he had loved and betrayed? Did he ever think of
Damocles and the hanging sword? Could he summon courage to look into
the future, or fortitude even to _think_ of the past? Sir Guy's wa