etested in the world should have the opportunity of for once
assuming such a position in the house of which she, Lady Mary, was
mistress, was exasperating. Pansey Cottrell, too, had contributed not a
little to her irritation by dwelling somewhat persistently at dinner on
Miss Sylla's dramatic talent. He had done this, dear pleasant creature!
simply for his own diversion. He was acting as prompter to a little
comedy of real life; and it is ideas, not words, that the prompters on
such occasions instil into our minds. As a rule, Pansey Cottrell would
have judiciously shirked such an entertainment as the one which he was
now with genuine curiosity taking his seat to witness. Neither host nor
hostess ever succeeded in persuading him to do what he did not fancy. He
would be ill, retire to his own bed-room at the shortest possible notice,
would no more make up a fourth at whist, or conduce to the entertainment
of his fellows, than volunteer for a turn on the treadmill. If his
entertainers troubled him much, he did not come their way again. Of
course, they need not ask him unless they liked. But Mr. Cottrell knew
society well. Once assure such recognition as he had done, and how
obtained matters not an iota: the more unmeasured your insolence to
society, the more does society bow down and worship.

"Where's Brummell dished?"

Yes, but it was a mere matter of _L.s.d._ that dished him. That he ever
did tell the Prince to ring the bell is unlikely; but society thought him
capable of doing so, and reverenced him accordingly.

The bell rings, and the fingers of Laura Chipchase, who has already
seated herself at the piano, begin to move dreamily over the keys. She
plays well, and a soft weird-like melody attunes the minds of the
spectators to what is to follow. Again the bell rings, and as the
curtain slowly rises comes the sharp report of a pistol. "Good Heavens!
there is some accident," escapes from three or four lips. But the wild
ghostly music still falls, without ceasing, from the piano. Slowly the
curtain continues to rise, and discovers two men confronting each other
after the approved custom of duelling. On the proper stage right stands
Mr. Sartoris, with brows bent and sullen scowl upon his lip; the
nerveless hand by his side grasps the still-smoking pistol. Opposite,
and as far from him as the space will admit, is Bloxam, his right arm
upraised, and his hand holding a pistol pointed upwards. In the
ba