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"Pretty? No. But she dresses very swagger, and always looks nice, and is generally correct all through," replies Mr. Rodney, easily. "Don't be long," he says, impulsively, as she disappears down a passage. Plumston is a village near. The first remark may sound Too free and easy, but his manner is decorous in the extreme. In spite of the fact that her pretty head is covered with a silk handkerchief in lieu of a hat, he acknowledges her "within the line," and knows instinctively that her clothes, though simplicity itself, are perfect both in tint and in texture..

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But a hand-to-hand encounter is not Mr. Carthy's forte. He prefers being propped up by friends and acquaintances, and thinks a duel a la mort a poor speculation. Now, seeing his whilom accomplice stretched apparently lifeless upon the ground, his courage (what he has of it), like Bob Acres', oozes out through his palms, and a curious shaking, that surely can't be fear, takes possession of his knees. "Yes, really. Horrid bore, isn't it?—but county dinners must be attended, and Nicholas will do nothing. Besides, it isn't fair to ask him just now, dear old fellow, when he has so much upon his mind." In the death-chamber silence reigns. No one moves, their very breathing seems hushed. Paul Rodney's eyes are closed. No faintest movement disturbs the slumber into which he seems to have fallen. CHAPTER XXVI..