alleged correspondence of their own, and left her to herself.

Lady Constance went to her brother's study, where there was a
comfortable writing-table. She began to write without hesitation, and
her pen gabbled rapidly until she had covered two sheets of paper,
when, instead of taking a fresh sheet, she wrote across the lines
already written. After signing the letter, she read it through, and
added two postscripts. Then she remembered something she had forgotten
to say; but there was no more room on her two sheets, and she was
reluctant to use a third, which might, in a letter to France, involve
extra postage. Whilst she was hesitating her brother entered.

"Am I in your way?" she said. "I shall have done in a moment."

"No, I am not going to write. By-the-bye, they tell me you had a letter
from Marmaduke this morning. Has he anything particular to say?"

"Nothing very particular. He is in Paris."

"Indeed? Are you writing to him?"

"Yes," said Constance, irritated by his disparaging tone. "Why not?"

"Do as you please, of course. I am afraid he is a scamp."

"Are you? You know a great deal about him, I dare say."

"I am not much reassured by those who do know about him."

"And who may they be? The only person you know who has seen much of him