e have heard the truth from the fountain-head, and it is
rather serious. She swears, she kicks, she preaches. Do you still
desire an introduction? As for me, my manly spirit is beginning to
quake at Vandeleur's revelations, and some lines of Scott recur to my
Gothic memory--

"'From the chafed tiger rend his prey, Bar the fell dragon's blighting
way, But shun that lovely snare."'

Bassett replied, gravely, that he had no such motive as Mr. Woodgate
gave him credit for, but still desired the introduction.

"With pleasure," said Vandeleur; "but it will be no use to you. She
hates me like poison; says I have no heart. That is what all
ill-tempered women say."

Notwithstanding his misgivings the obliging youth called for writing
materials, and produced the following epistle--

"DEAR MISS SOMERSET--Mr. Richard Bassett, a cousin of Sir Charles,
wishes very much to be introduced to you, and has begged me to assist
in an object so laudable. I should hardly venture to present myself,
and, therefore, shall feel surprised as well as flattered if you will
receive Mr. Bassett on my introduction, and my assurance that he is a
respectable country gentleman, and bears no resemblance in character to

"Yours faithfully,

"ARTHUR VANDELEUR."

Next day Bassett called at Miss Somerset's house in May Fair, and
delivered his introduction.

He was admitted after a short delay and entered the lady's boudoir. It
was Luxury's nest. The walls were rose colored satin, padded and
puckered; the voluminous curtains were pale satin, with floods and
billows of real lace; the chairs embroidered, the tables all buhl and
ormolu, and the sofas felt like little seas. The lady herself, in a
delightful peignoir, sat nestled cozily in a sort of ottoman with arms.
Her finely formed hand, clogged with brilliants, was just conveying
brandy and soda-water to a very handsome mouth when Richard Bassett
entered.

She raised herself superbly, but without leaving her seat, and just
looked at a chair in a way that seemed to say, "I permit you to sit
down;" and that done, she carried the glass to her lips with the same
admirable firmness of hand she showed in driving. Her lofty manner,
coupled with her beautiful but rather haughty features, smacked of
imperial origin. Yet she was the writer to "jorge," and four years ago
a shrimp-girl, running into the sea with legs as brown as a berry.

So swiftly does merit rise in this world which, nevertheless, s