“Then I am happy of the addition,” she replied simply. “I very nearly refused to show my face abroad this e’en — but one cannot hide within doors forever. Poor Kinny’s affairs are so sadly entangled—” She faltered, and compressed her lips.

“I am certain Lord Harold will soon put them to rights.”

“You were present, I understand, at Grandmère’s rout?”

“I had the honour of dancing with your brother well before supper.”

Her face brightened. “Then you must see it as I do! You will know how impossible it is for Kinny to do anyone a mischief!”

“Was he long in residence at Laura Place before the sad events of Tuesday?”

“He was arrived but a fortnight.”

“Lord Kinsfell,” Miss Wren interposed with an important air, “was come on an errand from His Grace the Duke. He intended the removal of Lady Desdemona from Bath, and I for one must deeply regret that he did not carry his point!” At this, she cast a withering look at the Dowager Duchess; and I concluded that Eugenie had refused to give up her granddaughter. “But then, in my forty years, I have often observed, that a world of misfortune will result from the too-great indulgence of a wilful mind. I—”

“Oh, Lord, Wren, will you have done?” Lady Desdemona cried in evident exasperation. “Would you have me sent off, against my express wishes? Returned summarily to that dreadful prison?”

“Wilborough House may certainly be draughty, and its decoration of a vanished era, but no bars does it boast, nor turnkeys at the door,” Miss Wren replied with pointed reproof. “Whereas Bath cannot be safe for your reputation, my dear Mona, in its present climate of opinion. You are well launched on your first Season — but we cannot sink in complacency. You would do well to seize what opportunity offers. We are none of us growing the younger.”

Lady Desdemona trembled with indignation, and colour mounted to her cheeks. I may say that she appeared to even greater advantage this evening, being dressed all in white and with pearls in her hair, than she had in the midst of the rout. At eighteen, her figure was already formed; she was fine-boned and elegant, and her countenance glowed with the outrage of her feeling.

“Grandmère,” she pleaded, with a hand to the Dowager’s arm. “It is beastly of Wren to speak to me so — as though Kinny’s misfortune were entirely my fault! Tell her that she is not to interfere. Tell her I may stay with you always.”

“Of course, my darling,” the Dowager replied indulgently. “You shall grow old in retirement — nay, retreat to a convent if necessary — for the discouragement of Lord Swithin. Not a new gown shall you have, nor any amusement, until a more respectable man begs for your hand.”

“But Lord Swithin is a man of parts!” Miss Wren spluttered. “I wonder, Mona, that you should slight a gentleman of his consequence; but it is ever the way with headstrong youth. You cannot know your own interest.”

“And is interest the sole consideration upon which I must judge exactly how I am to be happy?” Lady Desdemona exclaimed, with a quickening in her looks. “Lord Swithin is a man of far too many parts, by my way of thinking — and he has bestowed them far too widely about Town.”

“Mona!” Miss Wren cried, in shock. “What will your uncle think?”

“The Earl may be capable of intrigues, and dissipation, and schemes of the most pernicious kind — but as to comporting himself respectably, and in a manner that might ensure any woman’s love—”

“Brava, my dear,” the Dowager said comfortably. “You speak the part well. How I wish that a grandchild of mine might respectably tread the boards!”

“With respect, Your Grace,” Miss Wren interposed, “the Duke of Wilborough sees nothing objectionable in Lord Swithin — and in my day, a father’s approbation should have been enough. It is unbecoming in a lady to think so firmly for herself. It smacks of stubbornness and caprice, and neither may recommend her to the stronger sex. When you are as blessed with experience as I, my dear Mona—”

“—I shall undoubtedly be the happier, in having followed my heart,” Lady Desdemona concluded. “I may wonder, Wren, that having presented so biddable a nature in your day, you failed to find a husband.”

The mortification of this last remark was admittedly shocking; but I could not suppress a smile, nor a quick look for Lord Harold, whose countenance betrayed a smothered animation. The unfortunate Wren retreated hastily in a dignified silence, but declared from her looks that all enjoyment in the evening was at an end. A moment’s reflection seemed to chasten the Lady Desdemona; her cheeks flushed and her eyes found her lap; and so the curtain rose.

MISS CONYNGHAM, AS IT HAPPENED, WAS NOT INDISPOSED.

To the Dowager Duchess’s delight, the actress appeared in the very soul of Agatha — arch, too-intimate, and vulgar by turns — with a heightened colour and a depth of intonation that must captivate even the stoniest of hearts. Lord Harold, I observed, was most keenly aware of the lady — and fixed his quizzing glass upon her for the duration of the first act.

We had borne with the diverse fates of the inhabitants of a small German village — their incestuous proximity, their fantastic doubts; had heard love proclaimed, rejected, denied, and at long last embraced — and had, with relief at least for my part, achieved the space of an intermission. Lord Harold let fall his glass at last — and his countenance, to my surprise, was a study in abstraction. What quality in Maria Conyngham could so enthrall his thought?

“If you will excuse me, Mother, I believe I shall take the air,” he said abruptly, and bowed his way from the box.

“The devil tobacco,” Eugenie declared with an indulgent smile. “It is the sole influence he cannot master.”

“Are you comfortable, Your Grace?” Miss Wren enquired anxiously. “I am sure you must be warm. It is decidedly overheated — dreadfully close — and such odours as will rise from the pit—”

“In truth, Wren, I am feeling a trifle cold,” Eugenie replied serenely. “Perhaps you will fetch my shawl.”

The Dowager’s shawl — a formidable square of cashmere — being hung even now in the cloakroom, Miss Wren let slip a martyred sigh, and went in search of the stairs.

I turned my attention to Lady Desdemona. “The excellence of this evening’s performance must do Mr. Portal credit. The company might almost have exerted themselves to honour his memory.”

“Indeed,” the girl replied. She glanced at her grandmother, who gave every appearance of dozing behind her fan, and lowered her voice. “It is a pity, is it not, that he was denied the pleasure of witnessing their glory? The success of this theatre was his dearest concern, and Kotzebue his delight. It is incredible that he should be with us no more — he was so full of life, so animated with hopes for the season, and the new theatre in Beauford Square! Mr. Portal looked to the mounting of Lovers’ Vows to quite ensure his success; for it cannot fail to fill the stalls.”

“And so he has done. By the simple act of dying in so sensational a manner, Mr. Portal has brought all of Bath to Orchard Street,” I observed with deliberate coldness. “Were he on the brink of bankruptcy, we might accuse him of having staged his death merely for the sake of profit!”

“Miss Austen!” Lady Desdemona cried in horror; but horror swiftly gave way to amusement. Not for Lord Harold’s niece, Miss Conyngham’s outraged sensibility; and this alone could tell me much. She looked again at the dozing Dowager, and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Had Mr. Portal suspected there to be money in the act, I do not doubt he should have entertained the notion. He prized riches above all things — even, perhaps, the glory of his company.”

“Did he, indeed? And did he possess considerable means?”