THE tale of Germain's posthumous disposition of his chattels ran, as such tales will, all about town, and lost nothing in the running. Women took it complacently, after their kind. Of course it was odd; and yet, in its way, was it not a tribute? One or two pretty young wives told each other that it was touching; a Miss Lavender shed tears. In the clubs they said plainly that Duplessis had been bought off. Palmer Lovell, with his back to the fireplace, cried out in his strident boy's voice, If that's not compounding a felony, it's compounding a felon. But what the devil of a right has old Germain, alive or dead, to whip his wife in public? No clubman had an answer to this. The best thing of all was said by Lord Kesteven in Paris: God be good to us, what Turks we all are! Here's old Germain taking the harem-key into the grave with him.
That keen-faced old lord came to London and called on Mary in Hill-street. He observed her pale in her black weeds, but with a haunted kind of beauty upon her which she had never had before. Her eyes were enormous, he said. She was very