duty, and then—well, whenever he feels that, I believe if I asked for the moon he would try to get it."
"You are lucky to have married such a man," said Lady Hemingway; "he's a most willing creature!"
"But she never asks for the moon," remarked George.
Grace said nothing. When she asked for anything, it was always within arm-reach after a certain amount of straining.
"By the bye," said Lady Hemingway, suddenly, "did you see in the paper yesterday morning that Sir Edward Cargill is dead. Typhoid fever. Such a pity ! And he only came into the title a month ago."
"Nice young fellow—inclined to be stout—twelve thousand a year, at least," said the Captain, rapidly. "Belonged to my club—rarely dined there—dined deuced well when he did. Knew him quite well—very civil. Quite cut up to hear of his death. Only seven-and-twenty. Shocking!"
"I just mentioned him," said Lady Hemingway, "because I thought that Godfrey was friendly with the Cargills at one time. Didn't he visit them in the country—or something?"
"Oh no," said Harriet;" he knew the Heathcotes very well, and one of them married the poor man who is just dead. That's all."
"Ah!" said Lady Hemingway, "is that it?" She waited, and then—"The Cargill woman is very good looking."
"So I've heard," said Harriet.
"Men over thirty rave about her," said Lady Hemingway. " Did Godfrey ever rave?"