The order of the procession to the dining-room had been pre-arranged not
without some difficulty. Mrs. Bransby had pointed out to Theodore that
his whim of inviting Miss Cheffington must cause a solecism somewhere in
marshalling their guests.
"Constance will, of course, expect you to take her," said Mrs. Bransby,
"and then what is to be done with little Miss Cheffington? I really
think I had better invite two more people, and get some young man to
take her in to dinner. Perhaps Mr. Rivers would come."
But Theodore utterly opposed this suggestion, and said that the simple
and obvious course was for him to give his arm to Miss Cheffington, and
for Dr. Hatch to escort Miss Hadlow.
"Oh, well, if you don't mind," said Mrs. Bransby, looking a little
surprised. And so it was settled. But at the last moment, in arranging
her table and disposing the cards with the guest's name before each
cover, Mrs. Bransby found that it would be necessary, for the sake of
symmetrically alternating a lady and gentleman, to divide one couple,
and place them on opposite sides of the table. She decided that Dr.
Hatch and Miss Hadlow would endure this sort of divorce with equanimity;
and thus it came to pass that when Theodore took his seat at table he
found himself in the enviable and unexpected position of sitting between
the two young ladies of the party--Constance and May.
Mr. Bransby led out Mrs. Hadlow, the hostess bringing up the rear with
Canon Hadlow. Major Mitton had the honour of escorting Miss Piper, while
Miss Patty fell to Mr. Bragg. There was, as is usual on such occasions,
very little conversation while the soup and fish were being eaten. Miss
Piper, indeed, who was constitutionally loquacious, talked all the while
to Major Mitton, though in a comparatively low tone of voice; but the
rest of the company devoted themselves mainly to their plates; or at
least said only a fragmentary sentence now and then. But by degrees the
desultory talk swelled into a continuous murmur, across which bursts of
laughter were wafted at intervals. May had the satisfaction she had
hoped for, of being allowed to be quiet; for her neighbour on the one
hand was the canon, who contented himself with smiling on her silently,
whilst Theodore was greatly occupied by _his_ neighbour, Miss Hadlow.
Being seated between him and Major Mitton, she monopolized the younger
gentleman's attention with the undoubting conviction that he enjoyed
being monopolized.
Mr. Bragg, a heavy, melancholy-looking man, found Miss Patty Piper a
congenial companion on a topic which interested him a good
deal--cookery. Not that he was a _gastronome_. He had a grand French
cook; but he confided to Miss Patty that he never tasted anything
nowadays which he relished so much as he had relished a certain
beef-steak pudding that his deceased "missis" used to make for him
thirty years ago, and better. Miss Patty had, as it happened, some
peculiar and special views as to the composition of a beef-steak
pudding; and Mr. Bragg--borne backwards by the tide of memory to those
distant days when his missis and he lodged in one room, and before he
had learned the secret of transmuting tin-tacks into luxury and French
cooks--enjoyed his reminiscences in a slow, sad, ruminating way.
Presently, when the dessert was on the table, there came a little lull
in the general conversation, and the husky contralto voice of Miss Piper
was heard saying, "My dear Major, I tell you it was the same woman. You
say you heard her at Malta fifteen years ago. Very well. That's no
reason; for she might have been only sixteen or seventeen then. These
Italians are so precocious."
"More like six or seven-and-twenty, Miss Piper. Bless you, she
had long outgrown short frocks and pinafores in those days.
Fourteen--fifteen--yes; it must be fully fifteen years ago. It was the
season that we got up the 'Honeymoon' for the garrison theatricals. I
played the Duke. It has been one of my best parts ever since. And there
was a scratch company of Italian opera-singers doing wretched business.
We got up a subscription for them, poor things. But fancy 'La Bianca'
still singing Rosina in the 'Barber!'"
"She looked charming, I can tell you. I don't say that her voice may not
be a little worn in the upper notes----"
"I wonder there's a rag of it left," put in the Major.
"Yes; a little worn. But she knows how to sing. If one must listen to
such trivial, florid music, that's the only way to sing it."
"Ah, there we shan't agree, Miss Piper! No, no; I always stand up for
Rossini. I don't pretend to be a great swell at music, but I have an
ear, and I like a toon. Give me a toon that I can remember and whistle,
and I'll make you a present of Wagner and the other fellows, all
howlings and growlings."
"Major, Major," called out Dr. Hatch from the opposite side of the
table, "this is terribly obsolete doctrine! We shall have you confessing
next that you like sugar in your tea, and prefer a rose to a sunflower!"
Mr. Bransby, wishing to avert any unpleasant shock of opinions on such
high themes, here interposed. He turned the conversation back to the
Italian singer, who could be abused without ruffling anybody's _amour
proper_.
"But who is this _prima donna_ you're talking of, Major?" said he.
Miss Piper struck in before Major Mitton could reply. "It's a certain
Moretti:--Bianca Moretti. We heard her last summer in a minor theatre at
Brussels, with a strolling Italian Opera Company. Don't you remember,
Patty?"
"Moretti?" said Miss Patty, instantly breaking off in the middle of a
sentence addressed to Mr. Bragg, at the sound of her sister's voice.
"The woman with the fine eyes? Oh yes. I remember her particularly,
because of the awful scandal there was afterwards about her and that
Englishman."
Several heads at the table were now turned towards Miss Patty, who shook
her ginger-bread-coloured wig with a knowing air.
"I was just telling the Major," said Miss Piper. "We might never have
known of it, if it had not been for the Italian Consul, who was a friend
of ours. It was quite a sensation! A bit out of a French novel, eh?--Oh
yes; quite ready, Mrs. Bransby."
The last words had reference to a telegraphic signal from the hostess,
who immediately rose. Mrs. Hadlow had been looking across at her rather
uneasily during the last minute or so. The fact was that the Miss Pipers
were reputed in Oldchester to have a somewhat unconsidered and free way
of talking. Some persons attributed this to their annual visit to the
Continent: others thought it connected rather with Miss Piper's artistic
experiences, which in some mysterious way were supposed to have had a
tendency to make her "a little masculine." The implication would seem to
be that to be "masculine" involves a lax government of the tongue. But
as no Oldchester gentleman was ever known to protest against this
imputation, it is not necessary to examine it here more particularly.
"When she began to talk about a French novel, my dear, there was no
knowing what she might say next," said Mrs. Hadlow afterwards to Mrs.
Bransby. So the latter hurried the departure of the ladies as we have
seen.
When they rose to go away, May, of course, went out last; Theodore
holding the door open with his air of superior politeness.
"Who is that pretty little girl? I don't think I know her face," said
Major Mitton, when the young man had resumed his seat, and the chairs
were drawn closer together.
"That is Miss Miranda Cheffington."
"Cheffington? I knew a Cheffington once--a terrible black sheep. Very
likely it's not the same family, though. What Cheffingtons does this
young lady belong to?"
"The family of Viscount Castlecombe."
"The man I knew was a nephew of old Castlecombe. Gus Cheffington his
name was, I remember now."
Theodore moved a little uneasily on his seat, and, after a moment's
reflection, said gravely, "Captain Augustus Cheffington is this young
lady's father; he is a friend of mine. Miss Cheffington is going to town
to be presented next season by her aunt, Mrs. Dormer-Smith. She is a
very thoroughbred woman. Do you know the Dormer-Smiths, Major Mitton?
They are in the best set."
The Major did not know the Dormer-Smiths, and had no interest in
pursuing the subject. He turned to join in the conversation going on
between Mr. Bransby, the canon, and Dr. Hatch, and then Theodore slipped
out of his place and went to sit nearer to Mr. Bragg, who was looking a
little solitary. Mr. Bragg had a great many good qualities, but he was
usually considered to be heavy in hand from a conversational point of
view. Theodore, however, did not find him dull. He talked to Mr. Bragg
with an agreeable sense of making an excellent figure in the eyes of
that millionaire. Theodore had a strong memory, considerable powers of
application, and had read a great many solid books. He favoured Mr.
Bragg now with a speech on the subject of the currency, about which he
had read all the most modern theories up to date. The currency, he felt,
must be a peculiarly interesting subject to a man who sold millions and
billions of tin-tacks in all the markets of the world. Mr. Bragg drank
his wine, keeping his eyes on the table, and listened with silent
attention. Theodore, warmed by a mental vision of himself speaking in a
breathless House of Commons, rose to parliamentary heights of eloquence.
He had already addressed Mr. Bragg as "Sir," and had sternly inquired
what he supposed would be the consequence if the present movement in
favour of bimetallism should be still further developed in the United
States, when he was interrupted by his father's voice saying--
"Come, shall we ask Mrs. Bransby for a cup of coffee?"
Mr. Bragg lifted his eyes and rose from his chair, and Theodore and he
moved towards the door side by side.
"It ought to be boiled in a basin, oughtn't it?" said Mr. Bragg
thoughtfully. "Ah, no; it wasn't you. I remember now, it was Miss Patty
Piper who was mentioning--I'll ask her again when we get upstairs."
Meanwhile the elder ladies had been deep in the discussion of Miss
Piper's interrupted story. Constance and May had got close together near
the pianoforte, and Mrs. Bransby asked Constance to play something "soft
and pretty." Constance opened the instrument and ran her fingers over
the keys in a desultory manner, playing scraps of waltzes or whatever
came into her head, and continuing her chat with May to that running
accompaniment. Mrs. Bransby, Mrs. Hadlow, and the Miss Pipers grouped
themselves near the fireplace at the other end of the room, and carried
on their talk also under cover of the music.
"It was odd enough that on my happening to mention the name of the
Moretti to Major Mitton he should remember her at Malta so many years
ago," began Miss Piper.
"Yes; and you see now that I was right, and she can't be so young as you
thought her, Polly," said her sister.
"Lord, what does that matter? I only said she looked young, and so she
did. And besides, I dare say the Major exaggerates her age. When a woman
becomes a celebrity, or comes before the public in any way, her age is
sure to be exaggerated. Many people who only know me through my works
suppose me to be eighty, I dare say. They never imagine a woman so young
as I was at the time composing a serious work like 'Esther.'"
"Is she handsome, this Signora Moretti?" asked Mrs. Bransby, who was
always interested in, and attracted by, beauty.
"Very handsome--in that Italian style. Great black eyes, and black
eyebrows, and a fine profile. Too thin, though. But, oh yes; extremely
handsome. And a very clever singer."
"And a very worthless hussey," added Miss Patty severely.
"What a pity!" exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow. "It does seem so sad when one
finds great gifts, like talent and beauty, without goodness!"
"Well, I don't know that she was so very bad either," replied Miss
Piper.
"Goodness, Polly! How can you talk so!" cried her sister. "Why, she was
living openly with that Englishman!"
"Some people said she was married to him, you know, Patty."
"Stuff and nonsense!" returned Miss Patty, who, whilst undoubtedly
accepting her sister's views about music, tenaciously reserved the right
of private judgment as to the character of its professors, and was,
moreover, chronically incredulous of the virtue of foreigners in
general. "No sensible person could believe that. And as to her 'not
being so very bad'--what do you make of that nice story of the gambling,
and the police, and all the rest of it?"
"The police!" echoed Mrs. Hadlow, in a low shocked voice.
"What was that?" asked Mrs. Bransby.
"Now, just let me tell it, Patty," said the elder sister. "If I am wrong
you can correct me afterwards. But I believe I know more about it than
you do. Well, there was an Italian Opera Company singing in a minor
theatre of Brussels when we were there, and doing very well; for the
_prima donna_, Bianca Moretti, was a great favourite. They had
previously been making a tour through Belgium. One night we were in the
theatre with some friends, expecting to hear her for the second time in
the 'Barbiere,' when, some time after the curtain ought to have risen, a
man came on to the stage, and announced that the Signora Moretti had
been suddenly taken ill, and there would be no performance. But the next
day we learned that the story of the Moretti's illness was only an
excuse--or, at least, that if she was ill, it was only from the nervous
shock of having her house searched by the police."
"I think that was quite enough to make her ill! But why did they search
her house?" said Mrs. Bransby.
"Well, you see, it was in this way," continued Miss Piper, lowering her
voice, and drawing a little nearer to her hostess, while Mrs. Hadlow
cast a glance over her shoulder to assure herself that the girls were
occupied with their own conversation. "It seems that a set of men were
in the habit of meeting every night after the opera in her apartment to
play cards. There was the Englishman, and a young Russian belonging to a
grand family, and a Servian, or a Roumanian, or a Bulgarian, or
something," said Miss Piper, whose ideas as to the national distinctions
between the younger members of the European family were decidedly vague,
"and others besides. Now this man, the--the Bulgarian, we may as well
call him, was a thorough blackleg, and bore the worst of characters. He
led on the Russian to play for very high stakes, and won large sums from
him. Well, to make a long story short, one night there was a terrible
scene. The Russian accused the other man of cheating. They came to
blows, I believe, and there was a regular _esclandre_. And next day the
Bulgarian was missing. He had got away with a good deal of plunder."
"How shocking and disgraceful!" exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow, in whom this
gossip excited far more disgust than interest; and who thought Polly
Piper showed very bad taste in selecting such a topic.
"But why did the police search the Italian singer's apartment? It was
not _her_ fault, was it?" asked Mrs. Bransby.
"Why, you see, the gambling had gone on in her rooms. And the Bulgarian
turning out to be connected with a regular gang of swindlers, the search
was made for any letters or papers of his that might be there. We were
told that the Russian ambassador had something to say to it; for the
young Russian was connected with _very_ high people indeed. Nothing was
found, however."
"Nothing was found that could be laid hold of," put in Miss Patty. "But
there could be no question what sort of a person that woman was after
all that!"
"Well, really, Patty," said her sister, "it seems to me that the
Englishman was a deal more to blame. Nobody pretended that the Moretti
wanted to gamble for her own amusement, or profit either! It was the
ruin of her in Brussels; at any rate for that season. There was a party
made up to hiss her whenever she appeared; and there were disturbances
in the theatre; and, in short, the performances had to cease. I was
sorry for her."
"Upon my word, Polly, I don't see why you should be," cried Miss Patty.
"She deserved all she got. I have no patience with bestowing pity and
sympathy on such creatures. If she had been an ugly washerwoman, instead
of a painted opera-singer, nobody would have had a soft word for her."
"Oh, surely there are plenty of people who would be gentle to an ugly
washerwoman, if she needed gentleness," put in Mrs. Hadlow. "And you
know, my dear Miss Patty, we are taught to pity all those who stray from
the right path."
"As to that, I hope I can pity error as well as my neighbours--in a
_religious_ sense," returned Miss Patty with some sharpness. "But this
is different. I was speaking as a member of society."
"And the Englishman--was he implicated?" asked Mrs. Bransby, rather from
a desire to divert the conversation from a direction fraught with danger
to the general harmony than from any special curiosity on the subject.
"No; not exactly implicated," replied Miss Piper. "That is to say, he
was not suspected of any unfair play, or anything of that sort; but it
was considered disgraceful for him to have been mixed up in these
gambling transactions; especially as he was a much older man than the
others. And then----"
"And then," continued Miss Patty, "it was not considered exactly
creditable, I believe--although perhaps Polly thinks it was; I'm sure I
don't know,--it wasn't, most people would say, exactly creditable for a
man of family, an English _gentleman_, to be strolling about the world
with a parcel of foreign singers. And he had been doing just that. We
heard of his being at Antwerp, and Ghent, and Ostend with them."
"A man of family, do you say? A really well-born man?" said Mrs. Hadlow,
sitting suddenly very upright in the energy of her feelings. "How
shocking! That really seems to be the worst of all!"
"Well, I suppose we must pity _his_ errors," observed Miss Patty, with
some causticity. But Mrs. Hadlow was insensible to the sarcasm; or, at
all events, her sense of it was swallowed up by a stronger feeling. "I
do think it's a public misfortune," she went on, "when a person on whom
Providence has bestowed gentle birth derogates from his rank and forgets
his duties. It grieves me."
"You must suffer a good deal in these days, I'm afraid," said Miss
Patty, grimly.
"Not on that account," replied Mrs. Hadlow. "No; truly not. There may be
exceptions--I won't deny that there are some. But, on the whole, I
thoroughly believe that _bon sang ne peut mentir_."
"Well, perhaps Mr. Cheffington's blood is not so good as he says it is;
that's all," said Miss Patty, with a short laugh.
Mrs. Hadlow and Mrs. Bransby uttered a simultaneous exclamation of
amazement; and then the former said in a breathless whisper, "Hush,
hush, my dear, for mercy's sake! Did you say Cheffington? That
is--Cheffington is the name of that girl! Don't turn your head."
"Oh, it can't be the same!" said Mrs. Bransby, nervously.
"No, no; I dare say not. But the name--it must, I fear, be a member of
the family," answered Mrs. Hadlow.
"How lucky it wasn't mentioned in her hearing," said Miss Piper. "Poor
little thing, I wouldn't for the world----! She's very pretty and
bright-looking. I don't think I ever saw her before."
Mrs. Bransby hurriedly explained how May came to be there, and as much
of her story as she was acquainted with--which was, in truth, very
little. The Miss Pipers listened eagerly, and Mrs. Hadlow sat by with a
cloud of anxious perplexity on her usually beaming face. They all
admitted that of course the person spoken of _might_ be no relation of
May's at all; but it was evident that no one believed that hypothesis.
To the Miss Pipers the whole matter was simply a relishing morsel of
gossip. They dwelt with _gusto_ on "the extraordinary coincidence" of
Miss Cheffington's being there just that very evening, and "the singular
circumstance" that Major Mitton should remember Bianca Moretti, and
enjoyed it all very much. Mrs. Bransby's prevalent feeling was one of
annoyance, and resentment against Theodore, who had brought this girl
into the house. Mrs. Bransby detested a "fuss" of any sort; and shrank,
with a sort of amiable indolence, from the conflict of provincial feuds
and the excitement of provincial gossip. And now, she reflected, this
story would be spread all over Oldchester, and she would be "worried to
death" by questions on a subject about which she knew very little, and
cared less.
"We won't say another word about this horrid story," she said, looking
appealingly at the Miss Pipers. "Silence is the only thing under the
circumstances. Don't you think so? It would be so dreadful if the girl
should overhear anything, and make a scene; wouldn't it?"
Miss Polly and Miss Patty readily promised to be most guardedly
silent--for that evening, and so long as May should be present;
declaring quite sincerely that they would not for the world risk hurting
the poor child's feelings. And then Mrs. Bransby began to flatter
herself that the subject was done with, so far as she was concerned. But
Fate had decided otherwise.
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, Miss Hadlow was playing
one of her most brilliant pieces, to which Miss Polly Piper was
listening with an air of responsible attention, and gently nodding her
head from time to time in an encouraging manner; Miss Patty Piper and
May were looking over a large album full of photographs together; while
Mrs. Bransby was narrating to Mrs. Hadlow, Bobby's latest witticisms,
and Billy's extraordinary progress in the art of spelling:--these
juvenile prodigies being her two younger children.
Constance did not interrupt her performance on the entrance of the
gentlemen, and Major Mitton went to stand beside the pianoforte,
gallantly turning over the music leaves at the wrong moment, with the
best intentions. Canon Hadlow sat down near Miss Piper; the host with
Dr. Hatch crossed the room to speak to Mrs. Hadlow, and Mr. Bragg and
Theodore approached the table, at which Miss Patty and May Cheffington
were seated. Mr. Bragg drew up a chair close to Miss Patty at once, and
began to talk with her in a low voice, and with more appearance of
animation than his manner usually displayed. Theodore, as he observed
this, remembered with satisfaction that his friend Captain Cheffington
had formerly pronounced old Bragg to be a d----d snob. A man must indeed
be on a low level who could prefer Miss Patty Piper's culinary
conversation to a luminous exposition of the currency question as set
forth by Mr. Theodore Bransby. He bent over May, who was still turning
the leaves of the photograph book, and said, "I'm afraid you are not
having a very amusing evening, Miss Cheffington."
"Oh yes, thank you," returned May, making the queerest little grimace in
her effort not to yawn. "I am very fond of looking at photographs."
"I don't suppose there are many portraits there that you would
recognize. A little out of your set," said Theodore. "In fact, I don't
know many of them myself, I have been so much away. By the way, have you
any commands for your people in town? I go up the day after to-morrow."
"Shall you see Aunt Pauline?"
"Certainly. I suppose Lord Castlecombe is not likely to be in town at
this season?" went on Theodore, raising his tone a little so as to be
heard by the others. Constance's playing had now come to an end, and
there was a general lowering of voices, occasioned by the cessation of
that pianoforte accompaniment.
"I don't know, I'm sure. I don't know where he lives," answered May
innocently.
"Ahem! He is at this season, in all probability, at Combe Park, his
place in Gloucestershire."
May had never heard of her great-uncle's place in Gloucestershire; but
now, when Theodore said the words, her thought flashed through a chain
of associations to Mrs. Dobbs's mention of the Castlecombe Arms on the
Gloucester Road, kept by "Old Rabbitt," and she blushed as though she
had done something to be ashamed of.
"The last time I had the pleasure of seeing your father, he was talking
to me about Combe Park," continued Theodore, with a complacent sense of
superiority to the rest of the company in these manifestations of
familiar intercourse with members of the Castlecombe family. Lord
Castlecombe was a very important personage in those parts. As May did
not speak, Theodore went on: "Grand old place, Combe Park, isn't it?"
"Is it?" returned May absently. She was looking with great interest at
the portrait of a superb lace dress, surmounted by a distorted image of
Mrs. Bransby's head and face, which were quite out of focus. But the
lace flounces had "come out splendidly," as the photographer remarked.
And, if the truth must be told, May admired them greatly.
"Is it?" repeated Theodore, with a little smile. "But you have lived so
long abroad, that you are quite a stranger to all these ancestral
glories. I hope, however, that you have not the same preference for the
Continent that your father has?"
"Oh, I'm sure I should always love England best. But I don't know the
most beautiful parts of the Continent--Switzerland or Italy. We were
always in Belgium, and Belgium isn't beautiful. At least I don't
remember any beautiful country."
Thus May, with perfect simplicity, still turning over the photographs,
and all unconscious that the Miss Pipers had simultaneously interrupted
their own conversation, and were staring at her.
"No; Belgium is not beautiful--except architecturally," replied
Theodore. "But there is very nice society in Brussels, and a pleasant
Court, I believe. No doubt that's one reason why Captain Cheffington
likes it."
"Is Brussels your home, then? Do you live there?" asked Miss Patty,
leaning eagerly forward.
May looked up, and perceived all at once that every one was gazing at
her. The Miss Pipers' sudden attention to what she was saying had
attracted the attention of the others--as one may collect a crowd in the
street by fixedly regarding the most familiar object. In her
inexperience she feared she had committed some breach of the etiquette
proper to be observed at a "grown-up dinner party." Perhaps she ought
not to have devoted so much attention to the photographs! She closed the
book hurriedly as she answered--
"No, _I_ don't live in Brussels, but papa does--at least, generally."
Mrs. Bransby rose from her chair, and came rather quickly across the
room. "My dear," she said, "I want to present our old friend, Major
Mitton, to you;" and taking May by the arm, she led her away towards the
pianoforte.
Theodore observed this proceeding with a cool smile, and sense of inward
triumph. Mrs. Bransby began to understand, then, what a very highly
connected young lady this was, and was endeavouring, although a little
late, to show her proper attention. Another time Mrs. Bransby would
receive _his_ introduction and recommendation with more respect. In the
same way, he felt gratification in the eager questions with which Miss
Patty plied him. Miss Patty left the millionaire Mr. Bragg in the lurch,
and began to catechize Theodore on the subject of the Cheffington
family.
That fastidious young gentleman said within himself that the snobbery of
these Oldchester people was really too absurd; and mentally resolved to
cut a great many of them, as he gained a firmer footing in the best
London circles. Nevertheless he did not check Miss Patty's inquiries. On
the contrary, he condescendingly gave her a great deal of information
about his friends the Dormer-Smiths, the late lamented Dowager, the
present Viscount Castlecombe, his two sons, the Honourable George and
the Honourable Lucius, as well as some details respecting the more
distant branch of the Cheffington family, who had intermarried with the
Scotch Clishmaclavers, and were thus, not remotely, connected with the
great ducal house of M'Brose.
This was all very well; but Miss Patty was far more interested in
getting some information about Captain Cheffington which would identify
him with the hero of the Brussels story, than of following the genealogy
of the noble head of the family into its remotest ramifications. And,
notwithstanding that Theodore was much more reticent about the Captain,
she did manage to find out that the latter had lived abroad for many
years--chiefly in Belgium--and that his pecuniary circumstances were not
flourishing.
"I'm quite convinced it's the same man, Polly," she said afterwards to
her sister. And, indeed, all the inquiries they made in Oldchester
confirmed this idea. The Simpsons gave anything but a good character of
May's absentee parent. And subsequent conversation with Major Mitton
elicited the fact that Augustus Cheffington had been looked upon as a
"black sheep" even by not very fastidious or strait-laced circles many
years ago. The story of the Brussels scandal was not long in reaching
the ears of every one in Oldchester who had any knowledge, even by
hearsay, of the parties concerned.
Theodore Bransby, who left Oldchester on the Monday following the
dinner-party, and spent the intervening Sunday at home, was one of the
few in the above-named category who did not hear of it.