CHAPTER VIII.



A MAD WIFE.

"I'll tell you all about it," said Scone Dacres; "but don't laugh, for
matters like these are not to be trifled with, and I may take
offense."

"Oh, bother, as if I ever laugh at any thing serious! By Jove! no. You
don't know me, old chap."

"All right, then. Well, to begin. This wife that I speak of happened
to me very suddenly. I was only a boy, just out of Oxford, and just
into my fortune. I was on my way to Paris--my first visit--and was
full of no end of projects for enjoyment. I went from Dover, and in
the steamer there was the most infernally pretty girl. Black,
mischievous eyes, with the devil's light in them; hair curly, crispy,
frisky, luxuriant, all tossing over her head and shoulders, and an
awfully enticing manner. A portly old bloke was with her--her father,
I afterward learned. Somehow my hat blew off. She laughed. I laughed.
Our eyes met. I made a merry remark. She laughed again; and there we
were, introduced. She gave me a little felt hat of her own. I fastened
it on in triumph with a bit of string, and wore it all the rest of the
way.

"Well, you understand it all. Of course, by the time we got to Calais,
I was head over heels in love, and so was she, for that matter. The
old man was a jolly old John Bull of a man. I don't believe he had the