walk near, under deep
trees by a little brown brook, full of forget-me-nots.

He hears a step, and looks up: he does not see her, but the Russian
secretary, Gregor Litroff, always called "Toffy" by his female friends
in England.

"_Dieu de Dieu!_ What an institution your English Sunday is!" says
Litroff, with a yawn. "I looked out of my window an hour ago, and beheld
Usk in a tall hat, with his little boy on one side and miladi Waverley
on the other, solemnly going to church. How droll! He would not do it in
London."

"It is not more ridiculous to go to church in a tall hat than to
prostrate yourself and kiss a wooden cross, as you would do if you were
at home," says Brandolin, contemptuously, eying the intruder with
irritation.

"That may be," says the secretary, good-humoredly. "We do it from habit,
to set an example, not to make a fuss. So, I suppose, does he."

"Precisely," says Brandolin, wondering how he shall get rid of this man.

"And he takes Lady Waverley for an example, too?" asks Litroff, with a
laugh.

"Religion enjoins us," replies Brandolin, curtly, "to offer what we have
most precious to the Lord."

The secretary laughs again.

"That is very good," he says, with enjoyment.

Mr. Wootton comes in at that instant. He has been away, but has
returned: the cooks at Surrenden are admirable. Brandolin sees his hopes
of a _tete-a-tete_ and a walk in the home wood fading farther and
farther from view. Mr. Wootton has several telegram-papers in his hand.

"All bad news, from all the departments," he remarks.

"There is nothing but bad news," says Brandolin. "It is painful to die
by driblets. We shall all be glad when we have got the thing over,--seen
Windsor burnt, London sacked, Ireland admitted to the American Union,
and Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone crowned at Westminster."

Mr. Wootton coughs: he does not like unseemly jests, nor to have the
gravity and exclusiveness of the private intelligence he receives
doubted. He turns to Litroff, talks of Russian politics, and brings the
conversation round to the Princess Sabaroff.

Brandolin, appearing absorbed in his book, lies on his couch wondering
whether he should meet her anywhere about the gardens if he went out. He
listens angrily when he hears her name.

"Was she ever talked about?" asks Mr. Wootton, searching the
book-shelves.

"What charming woman is not?" returns Litroff, gallantly.

"My dear count," replies Mr. Wootton, with grave rebuke, "we