de, and I allow she's got to marry a
title before I go back to the States. Some one's got to hustle when
Providence isn't attending to business, and as there's nobody else to do
it, I've taken on the contract." She pointed to the paragraph. "I own
up I don't see just how, but there wasn't much time, and it was the best
I could do."

Lady Hartley slowly reread the incriminating paragraph:

"A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place between the
Earl of Chilminster, of Sapworth Hall, Wilts, and Miss Jeannette L.
Urmy, of Boston, Massachusetts."

"It knocks me out!" she murmured, lapsing into the Western idiom which a
whole week spent in the society of her bosom friend was bound to call
up. "But why Lord Chilminster?" She pronounced the name Chilster.

"Why won't he do? Isn't he the real thing? I picked him out in my sample
book of the aristocracy, and when I fitted the name on to Jeannette--the
Countess of Chilminster--it sounded quite elegant."

"Then it wasn't because you knew I knew him?" demanded Mrs. Urmy's
hostess with growing amazement.

Mrs. Urmy's face took on a blank expression.

"You've heard me mention the name. That's how it's pronounced,"
explained Lady Hartley. "His place isn't far from here."

"You don't say! The way these British titles are pronounced is enough to
make you doubt your own eyesight. I didn't know. But if he's a friend of
yours that'll likely make it all the easier."

"Lord Chilminster!" Lady Hartley spoke in an awed tone.

She felt it would be useless to make Mrs. Urmy understand the enormity
of her offence against good taste, and presently her astonishment gave
way to amusement.

"Lavinia," she rippled, "as a matchmaker you take the cake! I don't
believe----" She paused, listening. "Hush! Here's Jeannette!"

Miss Jeannette Urmy came in through the open French window. She was
dressed in a natty little cotton frock, looked fresh and chic, and only
pleasantly American. Perhaps she inherited her good looks and refined
tastes from "popper" Urmy, deceased, in which case that gentleman must
have committed one serious error of taste and judgment when he selected
Jeannette's mother for his better half.

"My! You're late, Jeannette!" observed Mrs. Urmy, shooting a quick
glance at Lady Hartley.

At the same moment, both ladies, by common consent, sauntered toward the
door. They knew Jeannette's temperament. A crisis, such as the
announcement in the _Morning Post_ was s