consolation--in wine or in that dearer danger, woman. I have tried both,
Anastasia. And I tell you--"

He dropped her hands as though they had been embers. Lord Rokesle had come
quietly into the hall.

"Why, what's this?" Lord Rokesle demanded. "Simon, you aren't making love
to Lady Allonby, I hope? Fie, man! remember your cloth."

Simon Orts wheeled--a different being, servile and cringing. "Your Lordship
is pleased to be pleasant. Indeed, though, I fear that your ears must
burn, sir, for I was but now expatiating upon the manifold kindnesses your
Lordship has been so generous as to confer upon your unworthy friend. I was
admiring Lady Allonby's ruffle, sir,--Valenciennes, I take it, and very
choice."

Lord Rokesle laughed. "So I am to thank you for blowing my trumpet, am I?"
said Lord Rokesle. "Well, you are not a bad fellow, Simon, so long as you
are sober. And now be off with you to Holles--the rascal is dying, they
tell me. My luck, Simon! He made up a cravat better than any one in the
kingdom."

"The ways of Providence are inscrutable," Simon Orts considered; "and
if Providence has in verity elected to chasten your Lordship, doubtless
it shall be, as anciently in the case of Job the Patriarch, repaid by a
recompense, by a thousandfold recompense." And after a meaning glance
toward Lady Allonby,--a glance that said: "I, too, have a tongue,"--he was
mounting the stairway to the upper corridor when Lord Rokesle called to
him.