January was watering and freezing old earth by turns, when the Hon. Peter travelled down to the sun of his purse with great news. He had no sooner broached his lordship's immediate weakness, than Mountfalcon began to plunge like a heavy dragoon in difficulties. He swore by this and that he had come across an angel for his sins, and would do her no hurt. The next moment he swore she must be his, though she cursed like a cat. His lordship's illustrations were not choice. "I haven't advanced an inch," he groaned. "Brayder! upon my soul, that little woman could do anything with me. By heaven! I'd marry her to-morrow. Here I am, seeing her every day in the week out or in, and what do you think she gets me to talk about?—history! Isn't it enough to make a fellow mad? and there am I lecturing like a prig, and by heaven! while I'm at it I feel a pleasure in it; and when I leave the house I should feel an immense gratification in shooting somebody. What do they say in town?"
"Not much," said Brayder, significantly.
"When's that fellow—her husband—coming down?"
"I rather hope we've settled him for life, Mount."
Nobleman and parasite exchanged looks.
"How d'ye mean?"
Brayder hummed an air, and broke it to say, "He's in for Don Juan at a gallop, that's all."
"The deuce! Has Bella got him?" Mountfalcon asked with eagerness.
Brayder handed my lord a letter. It was dated from the Sussex coast, signed "Richard," and was worded thus:
"My beautiful Devil!—