sense that some of Jane Knocker's ideas of pleasure were of the oddest (she had such lacunes), and some of the ordeals to which she exposed poor Fanny singularly ill-chosen. Maurice came in, perspiring but pale, (nothing could make him ugly!) to dress for dinner; and though he was in a great hurry, he found time to pant: "Oh, mother, what I'm going through for you!"
"Do you mean rushing about so—in this weather? We shall have a change to night."
"I hope so! There are people for whom it doesn't do at all; ah, not a bit!" said Maurice, with a laugh that she didn't fancy. But he went up-stairs before she could think of anything to reply, and after he had dressed, he passed out without speaking to her again. The next morning, on entering her room, her maid mentioned, as a delicate duty, that Mr. Glanvil, whose door stood wide open, and whose bed was untouched, had apparently not yet come in. While, however, her ladyship was in the first freshness of meditation on this singular fact, the morning's letters were brought up, and as it
