being other people's husbands, but likes all the better to make them follow her. And that is just the sort of lady who says poor servants ain't to have any followers at all, not even to keep company. I have no patience with her; and if I was my lady, I should look after her pretty sharp with my lord."
"These are early days for subspicions, Mrs. Tomkinson," answered Mrs. Nelson, dogmatically; "and I hope your lady will never have cause for any."
"I hope so, too, ma'am; but I don't quite like my lord"; and so they parted.
One of the odd channels scooped out by Lady Portmore's restless vanity was a persuasion that she was the world's universal confidante; and she would enter into long arguments to prove that she must necessarily have foreknown any piece of intelligence or gossip that was imparted to her. Like all very vain people, she was contradictory; and this, added to her pretensions to universal knowledge, rendered her conversation a glorious mass of inconsistencies.
"I have heaps of news," she said one morning when she came down to breakfast. "I dote upon letters, particularly from clever people, though it is a sad thing for me, having the reputation of a good letter-writer to keep up. You know there is no vanity in saying so, for my letters are very original."
"Particularly so," said Ernest, "for they always seem to me to consist of rows of rather crooked lines, without either vowels or consonants."
Lady Portmore gave him a look which meant to imply to the company at large that Ernest was committing a little indiscretion by letting out that she corresponded with him. She put on an air of pretty confusion, and said, "Pray what do you know about my letters?" and then went on:
"But now for my news. One of my great favourites is going to be married—Charles Wyndham."
