"The same, sir," was the answer.
"The very thing!" cried Curtis. "If there's one class of young ladies that I like more than another, it is the ladies'-maids. Why, my dear, when I left Paris—where I stayed some time with the Archbishop of that city,—for his Grace and I are as thick as two thieves—the ladies'-maids held a meeting, and appointed a committee to draw up an address expressive of regret and all that sort of thing at my going away. They did, upon my honour! But let us come to the point, my dear. Shall you be in Conduit Street this evening at about seven?"
"I think it's very likely, sir," was the answer. "But you must not go with me any farther now—for I live at the house with the bay-windows there."
"But whose service are you in, my dear?" asked Frank.
"In Lady Georgiana Hatfield's," replied the young woman.
"Indeed!" cried Curtis. "I've heard an uncle of mine speak of her ladyship, I think. But this is a great nuisance, though."
"What is?" asked Charlotte, whom our readers may remember to have been mentioned at the opening of this tale.
"Why—that you and me must separate just at the moment that we are getting so friendly together—and without a single kiss, either."
Charlotte giggled—but said nothing.
"You will really be in Conduit Street this evening, my dear?" urged Frank Curtis, after a brief pause.