les
and a mass of brilliant rings, making good play with a knife and fork.
Who was she? At intervals a high acid voice could be heard addressing
Tom, and a laugh that made me shudder; it had the quality of the scream
of a bird of prey or the yell of a jackal. I had heard that sort of
laugh before, and it always made me feel like a defenseless rabbit.

Every time it sounded I saw Leta's fan flutter more furiously and her
manner grow more nervously animated. Poor dear girl! I never in all my
recollection wished a dinner at an end so earnestly so as to assure her
of my support and sympathy, though without the faintest conception why
either should be required.

The ices at last. A _menu_ card folded in two was laid beside me. I read
it unobserved. "Keep the B. from joining us in the drawing-room." The
B.--? The bishop, of course. With pleasure. But why? And how? _That's_
the question, never mind "why." Could I lure him into the library--the
billiard room--the conservatory? I doubted it, and I doubted still more
what I should do with him when I got him there.

The bishop is a grand and stately ecclesiastic of the mediaeval type,
broad-chested, deep-voiced, martial of bearing. I could picture him
charging mace in hand at the head of his vassals, or delivering over a
dissenter of the period to the rack and thumb-screw, but not pottering
among rare editions, tall copies and Grolier bindings, nor condescending
to a quiet cigar among the tree ferns and orchids. Leta must and should
be obeyed, I swore, nevertheless, even if I were driven to lock the door
in the fearless old fashion of a bygone day, and declare I'd shoot any
man who left while a drop remained in the bottles.

The ladies were rising. The lady at the head of the line smirked and
nodded her pink plumes coquettishly at Tom, while her hawk's eyes roved
keen and predatory over us all. She stopped suddenly, creating a block
and confusion.

"Ah, the dear bishop! _You_ there, and I never saw you! You must come
and have a nice long chat presently. By-by--!" She shook her fan at him
over my shoulder and tripped on. Leta, passing me last, gave me a look
of profound despair.

"Lady Carwitchet!" somebody exclaimed. "I couldn't believe my eyes."

"Thought she was dead or in penal servitude. Never should have expected
to see her _here_," said someone else behind me confidentially.

"What Carwitchet? Not the mother of the Carwitchet who--"

"Just so. The Carwitchet who--"