the highway road by Lord Fleetwood as soon as he had her in his eye.
Sir Meeson Corby wrings his frilled hands to depict the horror of the
hands of that tramp the young lord had her from. They afflict him
malariously still. The man, he says, the man as well was an infatuation,
because he talks like a Dictionary Cheap Jack, and may have had an
education and dropped into vagrancy, owing to indiscretions. Lord
Fleetwood ran about in Germany repeating his remarks. But the man is
really an accomplished violinist, we hear. She dances the tambourine
business. A sister of the man, perhaps, if we must be charitable. They
are, some say, a couple of Hungarian gypsies Lord F. found at a show and
brought over to England, and soon had it on his conscience that he ought
to marry her, like the Quixote of honour that he is; which is equal to
saying crazy, as there is no doubt his mother was.

The marriage is no longer disputable; poor Lady Fleetwood, whatever her
faults as a step-mother, does no longer deny the celebration of a
marriage; though she might reasonably discredit any such story if he,
on the evening of the date of the wedding day, was at a Ball, seen by her
at the supper-table; though it is admitted he left the Ball-room at
night. But the next day he certainly was in his place among the Peers
and voted against the Government, and then went down to his estates in
Wales, being an excellent holder of the reins, whether on the coach box
or over the cash box.

More and more wonderful, we hear that he drove his bride straight from
the church to the field of a prizefight, arranged for her special
delectation. She doats on seeing blood-shed and drinking champagne.
Young Mr. Mallard is our authority; and he says, she enjoyed it, and
cheered the victor for being her husband's man. And after the shocking
exhibition, good-bye; the Countess of Fleetwood was left sole occupant of