face she ought to get a rich husband, but I'll warrant she's a silly
little fool and doesn't know her value," muttered the lady, her hands on
her hips.

Then her eyes travelled over the picturesque figure on the bed, noting
everything--the shoeless foot, the stockings wet to some inches above
the small ankles, the mud-stained skirt, the bedraggled cloak saturated
for quite a foot of its length. Her hair had lost its comb and had
fallen about her shoulders. Mrs. Fenton frowned as she saw these signs
of disorder.

Then she caught sight of a piece of paper peeping from the bosom of the
girl's dress. The next instant she had gently drawn it out and was
reading it. The paper was Dorrimore's letter.

"Of course, I knew there was a man at the bottom of the business. And a
marriage too. Hoity toity, that's another pair of shoes."

She threw back a fold of the cloak, and scrutinised Lavinia's left hand.

"No wedding ring!" she gasped. "I might ha' guessed as much. Oh, the
little fool! Why, she's worse than I was. _I_ wasn't to be taken in by
soft whispers and kisses--well--well--_well_!"

The lady bumped herself into the nearest chair, breathed heavily and
smoothed her apron distractedly. Then she looked at the letter again.
Her glance went to the top of the sheet.

"So, no address. That looks bad. Who's Archibald Dorrimore? May be that
isn't his right name. He's some worthless spark who's got hold of her