Lucy, in her letter to her lover, had distinctly asked whether she might tell Lady Linlithgow the name of her future husband, but had received no reply when she was taken to Bruton Street. The parting at Richmond was very painful, and Lady Fawn had declared herself quite unable to make another journey up to London with the ungrateful runagate. Though there was no diminution of affection among the Fawns, there was a general feeling that Lucy was behaving badly. That obstinacy of hers was getting the better of her. Why should she have gone? Even Lord Fawn had expressed his desire that she should remain. And then, in the breasts of the wise ones, all faith in the Greystock engagement had nearly vanished. Another letter had come from Mrs. Hittaway, who now declared that it was already understood about Portray that Lady Eustace intended to marry her cousin. This was described as a terrible crime on the part of Lizzie, though the antagonistic crime of a remaining desire to marry Lord Fawn was still imputed to her. And, of course, the one crime heightened the other. So that words from the eloquent pen of Mrs. Hittaway failed to make dark enough the blackness of poor Lizzie’s character. As for Mr. Greystock, he was simply a heartless man of the world, wishing to feather his nest. Mrs. Hittaway did not for a moment believe that he had ever dreamed of marrying Lucy Morris. Men always have three or four little excitements of that kind going on for the amusement of their leisure hours; so, at least, said Mrs. Hittaway. “The girl had better be told at once.” Such was her decision about poor Lucy.

“I can’t do more than I have done,” said Lady Fawn to Augusta.

“She’ll never get over it, mamma; never,” said Augusta.

Nothing more was said, and Lucy was sent off in the family carriage. Lydia and Nina were sent with her, and though there was some weeping on the journey, there was also much laughing. The character of the “duchess” was discussed very much at large, and many promises were made as to long letters. Lucy, in truth, was not unhappy. She would be nearer to Frank; and then it had been almost promised her that she should go to the deanery, after a residence of six months with Lady Linlithgow. At the deanery of course she would see Frank; and she also understood that a long visit to the deanery would be the surest prelude to that home of her own of which she was always dreaming.

“Dear me; sent you up in a carriage, has she? Why shouldn’t you have come by the railway?”

“Lady Fawn thought the carriage best. She is so very kind.”

“It’s what I call twaddle, you know. I hope you ain’t afraid of going in a cab.”

“Not in the least, Lady Linlithgow.”

“You can’t have the carriage to go about here. Indeed, I never have a pair of horses till after Christmas. I hope you know that I’m as poor as Job.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I am, then. You’ll get nothing beyond wholesome food with me. And I’m not sure it is wholesome always. The butchers are scoundrels and the bakers are worse. What used you to do at Lady Fawn’s?”

“I still did lessons with the two youngest girls.”

“You won’t have any lessons to do here unless you do ’em with me. You had a salary there?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Fifty pounds a year, I suppose.”

“I had eighty.”

“Had you, indeed. Eighty pounds, and a coach to ride in!”

“I had a great deal more than that, Lady Linlithgow.”

“How do you mean?”

“I had downright love and affection. They were just so many dear friends. I don’t suppose any governess was ever so treated before. It was just like being at home. The more I laughed the better every one liked it.”

“You won’t find anything to laugh at here; at least I don’t. If you want to laugh, you can laugh up-stairs or down in the parlour.”

“I can do without laughing for a while.”

“That’s lucky, Miss Morris. If they were all so good to you, what made you come away? They sent you away, didn’t they?”

“Well, I don’t know that I can explain it just all. There were a great many things together. No; they didn’t send me away. I came away because it suited.”

“It was something to do with your having a lover, I suppose.” To this Lucy thought it best to make no answer, and the conversation for a while was dropped.

Lucy had arrived at about half-past three, and Lady Linlithgow was then sitting in the drawing-room. After the first series of questions and answers Lucy was allowed to go up to her room, and on her return to the drawing-room found the Countess still sitting upright in her chair. She was now busy with accounts, and at first took no notice of Lucy’s return. What were to be the companion’s duties? What tasks in the house were to be assigned to her? What hours were to be her own; and what was to be done in those of which the Countess would demand the use? Up to the present moment nothing had been said of all this. She had simply been told that she was to be Lady Linlithgow’s companion, without salary, indeed, but receiving shelter, guardianship, and bread and meat in return for her services. She took up a book from the table and sat with it for ten minutes. It was Tupper’s great poem, and she attempted to read it. Lady Linlithgow sat totting up her figures, but said nothing. She had not spoken a word since Lucy’s return to the room; and as the great poem did not at first fascinate the new companion — whose mind not unnaturally was somewhat disturbed — Lucy ventured upon a question. “Is there anything I can do for you, Lady Linlithgow?”

“Do you know about figures?”

“Oh, yes. I consider myself quite a ready-reckoner.”

“Can you make two and two come to five on one side of the sheet and only come to three on the other?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that and prove it afterwards.”

“Then you ain’t worth anything to me.” Having so declared, Lady Linlithgow went on with her accounts and Lucy relapsed into her great poem.

“No, my dear,” said the Countess, when she had completed her work, “there isn’t anything for you to do. I hope you haven’t come here with that mistaken idea. There won’t be any sort of work of any kind expected from you. I poke my own fires and I carve my own bit of mutton. And I haven’t got a nasty little dog to be washed. And I don’t care twopence about worsted work. I have a maid to darn my stockings, and because she has to work I pay her wages. I don’t like being alone, so I get you to come and live with me. I breakfast at nine, and if you don’t manage to be down by that time I shall be cross.”

“I am always up long before that.”

“There’s lunch at two, just bread and butter and cheese, and perhaps a bit of cold meat. There’s dinner at seven; and very bad it is, because they don’t have any good meat in London. Down in Fifeshire the meat’s a deal better than it is here, only I never go there now. At half-past ten I go to bed. It’s a pity you’re so young, because I don’t know what you’ll do about going out. Perhaps, as you ain’t pretty, it won’t signify.”

“Not at all — I should think,” said Lucy.

“Perhaps you consider yourself pretty. It’s all altered now since I was young. Girls make monsters of themselves, and I’m told the men like it; going about with unclean, frowsy structures on their heads, enough to make a dog sick. They used to be clean and sweet and nice, what one would like to kiss. How a man can like to kiss a face with a dirty horse’s tail all whizling about it, is what I can’t at all understand. I don’t think they do like it, but they have to do it.”

“I haven’t even a pony’s tail,” said Lucy.

“They do like to kiss you, I dare say.”

“No, they don’t,” ejaculated Lucy, not knowing what answer to make.

“I haven’t hardly looked at you, but you didn’t seem to me to be a beauty.”

“You are quite right about that, Lady Linlithgow.”

“I hate beauties. My niece, Lizzie Eustace, is a beauty; and I think that, of all heartless creatures in the world, she is the most heartless.”

“I know Lady Eustace very well.”

“Of course you do. She was a Greystock, and you know the Greystocks. And she was down staying with old Lady Fawn at Richmond. I should think old Lady Fawn had a time with her; hadn’t she?”

“It didn’t go off very well.”

“Lizzie would be too much for t............