followed. Then the Countess observed—and it seemed at first rather irrelevant—
'I've been reading an unpleasant story.'
'In these days of French influence,' I began apologetically (not that I write such stories, or indeed any stories, but Lady Mickleham invites an apologetic attitude), and my eye wandered to the table. I saw nothing worse (or better) than the morning paper there.
'Contained in a friend's letter,' she continued, focussing the 'starers' full on my face.
I did not know what to do, so I bowed again.
'It must have been as painful for her to write as for me to read,' Lady Mickleham went on. 'And that is saying much. Be seated, pray.'
I bowed, and sat down in one of the straight-backed chairs. I also began, in my fright, to play with one of the pieces of embroidery.
'Is Lady Jane's work in your way?' (Lady Jane is named after Jane, the famous Countess, Lady-in-Waiting to Caroline of Anspach.)
I dropped the embroidery, and put my foot on my hat.
'I believe, Mr. Carter, that you are acquainted with Miss Dorothea Foster?'
'I have that pleasure,' said I.
'Who is about to be married to my son, the Earl of Mickleham?'
'That, I believe, is so,' said I. I was beginning to pull myself together.
'My son, Mr. Carter, is of a simple and trusting disposition. Perhaps I had better come to the point. I am informed by this letter that,
