be cruel to our little Gertrude, or I declare I shall report your misconduct to a certain baronet of our acquaintance."

Nugent's face burnt crimson, and anger flashed from his eyes. He asked with forced composure what she could possibly mean?

Mrs. Fazackerley was puzzled. Positively the man seemed in earnest. Now, Mrs. Fazackerley had not seen anybody in earnest since that day three years, when driving by the Serpentine one summer's afternoon she had seen a child fall out of a boat into the water, and heard its agonized scream for help. It gave her quite a turn. She drove home, and took fifty drops of red lavender. Otherwise, as she afterwards declared, "she did not know what would have happened to her!" So, when Nugent looked as if he was positively in earnest, Mrs. Fazackerley became uncomfortable. Her mind reverted to red lavender. She laughed hysterically; said she was afraid he thought her very foolish; and changed the subject by asking Nugent to take down to dinner a literary young lady with twinkling eyes and a nez retroussé.

The live duke was now announced, and the company filed off and descended to the dining-room.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE FIRST DROPS OF THE THUNDER-STORM.

THE company was numerous and the dinner protracted. The literary young lady Nugent took downstairs, was placed on his left, whilst a corpulent M.P. sat upon his right. The literary young lady snubbed him oracularly whenever he made a remark. The corpulent M.P. thought it his duty, as a humble representative of the free and independent electors of Little Fudgbury, to deliver himself, whenever he opened his mouth, of a series of connected sentences, after the manner of a short speech. So, when Nugent was silent the M.P. declaimed; and when he talked, the literary young lady pleasantly tripped him up, or blandly set him down.

Nugent did not intend going to the La Frondes' ball, having arranged for Gertrude to accompany the Fazackerleys, and made his escape out of the room as early as he could after the ladies had retired.

He had left his hat in the cloak-room, and not being able to find it there, took a candle from the table and proceeded into a room beyond, to which some of the hats and cloaks had been removed.

At that moment two of the guests entered the outer room, conversing in a careless tone, loud enough to be overheard. "Oh, don't you know?" said one of the men, "that is Nugent was not quite sure of the name. a beautiful woman. And so Clinton seems to think." "What, Sir Reginald?"

Mrs.

“Yes,

"To be sure! Don't you know? Oh! it's a clear case. People don't talk of it so much now as they did. It's getting stale. Why, they meet everywhere! You'll see them byand-by at the La Frondes'. He'll soon be off to Florence or Sorrento, or one of his favourite haunts with her, if I'm not much mistaken. Oh, he knows what he's about!"

"And that's her husband, then, that quiet-looking gentlemanly man who went out just before us?"

"Yes, that was Nugent. Poor fellow! poor fellow! The men laughed, and taking their hats, left the room. All this was said in a few seconds of time.

Nugent felt sick and giddy. He knew full well to whom the men alluded. Had they remained another second, he would probably have so far regained his presence of mind as to enter the room and show that their conversation was overheard, if not to insist upon an explanation. But the whole passed so swiftly that Nugent could do nothing. They had spoken carelessly. He passively listened, but took little interest in what they were saying. Suddenly a name is mentioned. The clue is given. But before he has time to decide what to do, the men are gone.

Even a man of the world, an habitué about town, would not have felt easy under the circumstances. If the words overheard did not make him jealous, at least they would make him angry. But Nugent was wholly new to London life: a man of simple habits, truth-telling, and plain-spoken; careful not to say worse things of his neighbours than they deserved; therefore, all the more sensitive to injuries done to his own reputation, or that of those dearest to him.

Nugent's first feeling was the anguish of mind caused by tidings of severe disaster. Then came a rush of vehement anger. He could hardly restrain himself from darting after the man who had traduced his dearly loved Gertrude, seizing him by the

throat, and compelling him publicly to confess that he lied. The storm of passion which shook his usually calm and steadfast mind threatened to make shipwreck of his judgment. He felt that in another moment he might do something which he should bitterly regret; so, hastening into the passage, he made for the street-door. A servant stepped forward to open it. It was strange, but Nugent could afterwards remember how, amidst all the turmoil of his agitation, he felt an absurd inclination to appeal to this man, and put to him the question

Is there anything in this horrible rumour? Is there any truth in it? Do you know anything about it?

It was a morbid yearning to assuage his anxiety, such as most of us have felt at one time or other when suffering from the torture of suspense. We long to appeal for aid to the first person we meet, whoever, or whatever he may be.

Nugent rushed out of the house, and traversed the pavement at a rapid pace.

The night was beautiful, and the trees and shrubs in the centre of the square rose up massive and distinct against the starry sky. He crossed the road, and, screened by their deep shadow, paced slowly up and down, lifting his hat from time to time that the fresh air might cool his throbbing temples.

Accustomed to resist the evil passions to which all of us are subject, Nugent gradually grew calmer, and reflected. steadily upon what he had just heard.

Was there any truth in the story? That Gertrude meditated a deliberate act of unfaithfulness Nugent did not for an instant believe. He would as soon have expected to see the planet shining far aloft above the dark church spire at the corner of the square, fall from the heavens, and perish like a fading spark of light. This supposition he entirely put from his mind. But was there any ground for this sinister rumour? There might be, and the thought stung him to the quick. He could not but recall to mind a thousand little trifling incidents, which, under the lurid light of a sudden suspicion, assumed a significance and distinctness that filled him with apprehension. Many things that, taken separately, are beneath notice, gain strength by cohesion. The anonymous letter received that day. Mrs. Fazackerley's foolish allusion to Clinton. The warmth of manner with which Gertrude defended Sir Reginald that very morning. These were

circumstances that immediately occurred to him when he tried to reason himself into a calmer frame of mind.

Soon other thoughts and recollections assailed him. It was certain that Gertrude and Sir Reginald Clinton had been much together since their arrival in town. Probably they had been together far oftener than he was aware of. She evidently liked and admired him. She praised him, and took his part. Then he remembered the civilities lavished upon them by Clinton; introductions to distinguished men; admission tickets to the houses of parliament, to private galleries of pictures, to many places of interest not accessible to the world at large even the frequent presents of fruits, flowers, and other luxuries, flashed across his memory. Had he been blind, deaf, mad all this time? Or was he now basely and meanly jealous of one who was a far better wife than he deserved to possess? He would be patient. He would control his feelings. He would pray for guidance and for strength. He would neither do nor say anything hastily.

:

It was true he might caution Gertrude that slanderous rumours were afloat. This would be his plain duty. But he would do so with calmness. He would keep down the faintest symptom of misgiving. He would treat the whole thing as beneath contempt. He would wait and watch. Meanwhile, what should he do at this present time? go back to Fazackerleys' was out of the question. He had told Gertrude he should probably leave early; his absence would not therefore be remarked.

To

Gertrude herself was going to the ball at Mrs. La Fronde's in the Fazackerleys' carriage. And there she would meet Clinton. The thought gave Nugent pain. She would meet Clinton. She would be with him during the evening. The world would whisper, point, and sneer. He did not hesitate long. He was invited to this ball, why should he not go himself? He would write a letter or two at his club, and then find his way thither.

The ball was at its height when Nugent ascended the stairs at the La Frondes'. The brilliant piquant melody of a new waltz struck upon his ear. The spacious lobby outside the ballroom was gay with flowers, and crowded by elegantly dressed women interspersed with the usual number of men looking as Englishmen are apt to do at the commencement of a ball, preternaturally solemn. There was space enough in the ballroom for dancing, and that was all. Looking into

the apartment, you perceived what at first appeared a wild chaotic assemblage of many-coloured ball-dresses flitting and floating and gyrating round and round each other. Meantime, he saw nothing either of Clinton or Gertrude. It was impossible to thread the mazes of this rapidly revolving multitude, and Nugent gazed into the room waiting till the dance should terminate. At the farther end of the ballroom he noticed an archway leading into another suite of apartments. One or two of his acquaintances passed and bowed. He responded mechanically, and still keenly scrutinized the faces of the company lining the sides of the room, or flitting in swift succession before him in the waltz. By-and-by, however, the music drew to a close, and after an abrupt pause or two, and a passionate semblance of beginning again like a steed reined in against its will, suddenly with a thrilling sonorous clash came to a full stop. The dance broke up, and some fifty or sixty couples poured forth into the lobby, where was a table covered with ices, negus, and other refreshments.

Nugent now quietly passed into the ballroom, and, after traversing it without success in search of Gertrude, turned his steps towards the inner room. It was richly furnished and decorated. The pure light of innumerable wax candles fell upon choice pictures that clothed the walls; upon alabaster statuettes; upon vases of various-coloured marble full of hothouse flowers. The damask ottomans and settees were mostly occupied by much-bejewelled mammas and chaperones nibbling ice and the reputations of their friends, or weighing in a rigid balance the relative advantages of different bon partis. Still no Gertrude: no Clinton. There was, however, a smaller room or boudoir beyond, and thither Nugent threaded his way. We will now, however, follow the movements of Gertrude. Owing to the compact between herself and Nugent, that she was not to dance more than a certain number of quadrilles and waltzes, a good part of every ball was passed by Gertrude in conversation. She did not much object, for her winning looks and lively conversation drew to her side those whose society was best worth cultivating. Now Clinton never danced, and thus found himself pretty frequently in juxtaposition with Gertrude. On this occasion, the latter had danced one quadrille with Major La Fronde, and was pressed by him to waltz; but, seeing Clinton leaning against the archway between the two rooms, she declined, and placed herself where she could be seen by Clinton. Presently the latter joined her, and,