"Mr.--er--Carter?" said she.

I bowed. I would have denied it if I could.

"My dears!" said Lady Mickleham.

Upon this five young ladies who had been sitting in five
straight-backed chairs, doing five pieces of embroidery, rose,
bowed, and filed out of the room. I felt very nervous.

A pause 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 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, focusing 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."