and in a short time were seated in their box at the opera, attended by the Colonel, Grantley and Lockwood.

The play had commenced, and all the party, except one, gradually became intent upon it. This was Charlotte, for whom every other part of the theatre, to judge by the diligence with which she directed her operaglass towards almost every corner of the building, seemed to possess greater attractions than the stage.

Presently a tall, fine-looking man of military appearance, and dressed in the extreme of fashion, was observed by the Colonel and his friends to enter the theatre, and take his seat in a box not very remote from their own. Charlotte's face flushed beautifully as a very kindly recognition took place between them ; and the strange gentleman's face flushed, too, as Grantley turned round and confronted him. And the love-lorn Charlotte may have thought it just a little strange that her swain soon afterwards moved from the

seat in which he had been previously sitting, and took up his position in such a way as to be hidden from her view by the portly figures of an elderly lady and gentleman, who may have been an alderman and his wife, but with whom, during the entire evening, he seemed to enter into no conversation.

But, from the moment of his entrance, a rapidly whispered and somewhat excited dialogue took place between the gentlemen, at which two of the ladies looked on with considerable amusement, while the third was making, apparently, every effort to seem as unmoved by passing events as might be, and, with eyes intent upon the stage, and wandering mind, doubtless deceived some into the notion that the opera was engaging her most rapt attention. And still the gentlemen talked on and ceased not; and in their colloquy they concocted a treacherous conspiracy, the success or failure of which can be known by reference to a future chapter.

CHAPTER XV.

FROM HARMONY TO DISCORD.

CAPTAIN EDGAR FITZJAMES was reclining in dressing gown and slippers, on the softest of couches, in his luxuriously furnished sitting-room, at the West End of London. And in his hand he held a newspaper, whose pages he was restlessly turning over as though he were in search of intelligence of special import to himself.

Just as his eyes rested on the column in which this intelligence was to be found, and as in order that he might understand it the better, he had removed the cigar from his

mouth, in which he had been indulging, a servant entered with letters.

He opened the first that came to hand, and briefly, but with evident enjoyment, congratulated himself aloud upon some accession of "luck" to himself, which appeared to have been the subject of the communication, prefacing his observation by a reference to the heathen deity Jupiter, and putting out his hand to catch at sundry bank-notes as they fell out of the envelope on to the floor.

"Jolly, so far, by Jove," he added, as he sank back with an ecstatic thrill into the

couch; "but let's see, what's this?"

He opened the neatest of pink envelopes, fragrant with the most delicious perfume, whereon was inscribed in a lady's small and beautifully finished running-hand his name, and its military prefix.

This letter seemed to be a very long one, whose contents, sooth to say, he did not devour, but only cursorily ran over, not without a certain expression of interest, nor yet

quite without a certain expression of disappointment. He turned the gentle missive over and over, and made a discovery that he had not yet read all its contents. His eyes fell at last on the postscript, but its perusal evidently pleased him more than the rest of the communication.

This time he rose, stretched himself, gaped, and walked towards the fire, surveying his onward progress, as he did so, by means of a capacious mirror over the mantel piece, and affectionately stroking his long thick whiskers by the way.

He then placed the pink letter in a slanting position against the wall, and looked at it, and thought aloud

"Ah! I think that matter ought to be settled. I haven't been definite enough yet. Women don't like to be put off, and they hate long engagements. Heigho! I must screw myself up to due pitch, I suppose, and then an end to liberty. But what a fool I am! Don't I know well it can't be helped?