r; but then that
suffices amply for their enjoyment. Mrs. Wriothesley, triumphant in
her schemes, chatted gaily with Mr. Cottrell, who was Sybarite enough
to know that the discussion of the fish salad that he was then engaged
upon, accompanied by the prattle of a pretty woman and irreproachable
champagne, was about as near Elysium as a man of his years and prosaic
temperament could expect to arrive at. He had had some conversation
with his hostess on the way home. They had both arrived at the
conclusion, from what they had seen in the theatre, that, even if
everything was not yet settled, it would be before the evening was out.
When she bade him good night, Mrs. Wriothesley added in low tones,

"Of course it is as we guessed; but don't say anything about it for the
next few days."

It was with feelings of great complacency that Mr. Cottrell, having lit
his cigar, stepped into his brougham. He had dined and supped
satisfactorily. He had passed a pleasant evening, and he was in the
early possession of a little piece of intelligence connected with that
comedy which he had seen commenced at Todborough which made its finish
perfectly plain to him. He could not help laughing as he thought of
the complication of feeling that this would produce in the mind of Lady
Mary Bloxam when it reached her, which of course it speedily would.
Would indignation at having to welcome as a daughter-in-law a girl she
disliked so much as she did Sylla Chipchase overcome the gratification
she would feel at finding that she need no longer dread her as an
obstacle to her plans for the settlement of Blanche? Upon the whole,
Mr. Cottrell thought not.

"They don't know it," he argued; "but Sylla Chipchase's father is a
wealthy man, and the young lady, in consequence of her mother's
settlement, a very long way off a penniless maiden. I don't think Lady
Mary has ever yet thought about Jim's marrying at all; but if Beauchamp
and Blanche only make a match of it, I fancy it would reconcile her
ladyship to a good deal. She wouldn't then, at all events, be beaten
at all points of the game by her pet aversion--Mrs. Wriothesley." And
once more Mr. Cottrell chuckled over the situation. "Piccadilly, eh?"
he muttered, looking out of the window. "I don't feel a bit like bed.
Egad, I'll turn in here and have another cigar;" and so saying Mr.
Cottrell stopped his brougham at the door of a well-known club, got
out, and leisurely ascended the steps.