has barely time to wipe his moustache free of it when Mrs. Massereene
enters.

"You here," exclaims she, staring at Tedcastle, "of all places in the
world! I own I am amazed. Oh, if your brother officers could only see
you now, and your coat all over flour! I need hardly inquire if this is
Molly's doing. Poor boy!" with a laugh. "It is a shame. Molly, you are
never happy unless you are tormenting some one."

"But I always make it up to them afterward: don't I, now, Letty?"
murmurs Molly, sweetly, speaking to Letitia, but directing a
side-glance at Luttrell from under her long, dark lashes: this
side-glance is almost a promise.

"Well, so you have come at last, Letty. And how did you enjoy your
'nice, long, happy day in the country,' as the children say?"

"Very much, indeed,--far more than I expected. The Mitchells were
there, which added a little to our liveliness."

"And my poor old mummy, was he there? And is he still holding
together?"

"Lord Rossmere? He is indeed, and was asking most tenderly for you. I
never saw him look so well."

"Oh! it grows absurd," says Molly, in disgust. "How much longer does he
intend keeping up the farce? He _must_ fall to pieces soon."

"He hasn't a notion of it," says Letitia, warming to her description;
"he has taken a new lease of his life. He looked only too
well,--positively ten years younger. I think myself he was 'done up.' I
could see his coat was padded; and he has adorned his head with a very
sleek brown wig."

"Jane," says Molly, weakly, "be so good as to stand close behind me. I
feel as if I were going to faint directly."

"Law, miss!" says Jane, giving way to her usual expletive. She is a
clean and worthy soul where pots and pans are concerned, but apart from
them can scarcely be termed eloquent.

"You are busy, Jane," says Mr. Luttrell, obligingly, "and I am not. (I
see you are winding up that long-suffering pudding.) Let me take a
little trouble off your hands. _I_ will stand close behind Miss
Massereene."

"He had quite a color too," goes on Letitia, mysteriously, "a very
extraordinary color. Not that of an old man, nor yet of a young one,
and I am utterly certain it was paint. It was a vivid, uncompromising
red; so red that I think the poor old thing's valet must have overdone
his work, for fun. Wasn't it cruel?"

"Are you ready, Jane?" murmurs Molly, with increasing weakness.

"Quite ready, miss," returns Luttrell, with hopeful promptness.

"I ask