The more Lady Mary heard of this water party, the more determined she was to attend it. True, her pet design, the establishment of her daughter, seemed to be running awry, but there was no occasion as yet for abandoning it. There was evidently something wrong between Blanche and Lionel Beauchamp, but that could never be put right by persistently avoiding him. Whatever the cloud between them, it was little likely to be dispelled if they never met. Then again, why should she facilitate matters for that odious Mrs. Wriothesley and her saucy chit of a niece? No; all the sporting blood of the Ditchins boiled in Lady Mary’s veins as she muttered,

“Margaret Wriothesley may stand in my way again, as indeed she has all her life; but she sha’n’t, at all events, be treated to the luxury of a ‘walk over.’”

Not encountering Mr. Cottrell in the course of the next two or three days, she dropped him a line of inquiry as to the composition of this coming water party, and concluded her note with

“Blanche is most provoking. She has evidently had some tiff with Lionel Beauchamp. She is very resolute about not going to this affair hints mysteriously she wants to know something, and declines to say what. I have no patience with such nonsense; and if I hear from you that the right people will be there, shall insist upon her going. Her thirst for knowledge applies, I suspect, to some proceedings of Mr. Beauchamp’s. If she would only confide what it is to me, I have little doubt I could put her mind at rest in eight and forty hours.

“Yours sincerely,
“MARY BLOXAM.”

Mr. Cottrell received this note the morning after he had dined and supped in Hans Place. Putting one thing and the other together, he began to have a tolerable inkling of how matters stood. He was looking forward to spending rather a pleasant day at this party of Beauchamp’s, and he now saw the possibility of adding still greater zest to his enjoyment by pulling the strings of one of those small social dramas so constantly occurring in our midst, which was a thing Pansey Cottrell dearly loved. He felt that he should be the good fairy on board that steamer, that two or three of the human puppets thereon would dance in accordance with his fingering of the wires; and mischievously as he would interfere at times in such matters, felt upon this occasion that the puppets would jig as much to their own gratification as to his.

“Dear Lady Mary,” he replied, “it is to be quite one of the pleasantest things of the season. All your own set will be there pre-eminently the right people all round. I saw Beauchamp and his confreres last night. They say they are overwhelmed with applications for tickets, but have adhered rigidly to the number originally determined on. They may naturally expect to find themselves quite out of society next season. Those that were asked will have forgotten all about it, while those that were not won’t. Kind regards to Miss Blanche. Tell her that there is a great deal of information to be picked up at water parties, and that I will guarantee her making one or two discoveries which I think will surprise and please her.

“Yours sincerely,
“PANSEY COTTRELL.”

On receipt of that note Miss Bloxam’s determination not to attend the Beauchamp party vanished. It would be hard to say now whether mother or daughter were more impatient for that afternoon, or more curious as to what it might bring forth. Lady Mary’s speculations were vague in the extreme. Mr. Cottrell’s shadowy announcement she regarded as liable to mean as much or as little as “hear of something to one’s advantage” might in an advertisement in the second column of the Times. But with Blanche the case was different. Miss Bloxam’s ideas took definite shape, and, with very slight grounds to go upon, she jumped instinctively to the conclusion as women will in such cases that whether Lionel Beauchamp was to be all to her or nothing would be effectually settled that afternoon. The promoters of the picnic themselves could not have prayed more fervently for fine weather than did Lady Mary and her daughter.

“Happy is the bride that the sun shines on,” saith the proverb; but if it is vouchsafed one to command a fine day at will in the course of existence, it would be better to reserve that privilege not for one’s wedding, but for our first important picnic. Lionel Beauchamp and his confreres were especially favoured. The day for their picnic was like unto that described by De Quincey, when “midsummer with all its banners was marching through the sky.” A more gorgeous afternoon to loiter away upon the water it was hard to imagine. Moored along the side of the Westminster Pier was, if not the Great Eastern, at all events as large a steamer as it was practicable to bring there. Awnings were stretched both fore and aft above decks, the snowy whiteness of which would have done no discredit to a man-of-war. In the bows of the boat a band was pouring forth all sorts of popular melody, inciting the fashionable crowd to “Haste to the Wedding,” “Down among the Coals,” “When Johnny comes marching Home,” &c. At the head of the gangway the hosts received their guests, and the numbers in which they trooped on board gave some warrant to Lionel Beauchamp’s laughing assertion that giving a party in London is something like the making of a snowball: it increases with undreamt-of rapidity.

“Twenty-five guests apiece, Mrs. Wriothesley, was, I give you my word, the first faint-hearted conception of myself and three companions,” said Beauchamp, laughing, as he welcomed that lady and Miss Chipchase; “but you see people have been kind to us, and that we are more popular in society than we dared venture to hope.”

“Ah, Lionel, yes,” rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, as she shook hands, “and with so nice a ship, such glorious weather, and so many pleasant compagnons de voyage as I see around me, you will find us all willing to dance to your pipe, even if it led us all the way to New York.”

“We are too discreet to attempt the impossible,” replied Lionel. “If we can only please and amuse our guests to Gravesend and back, we shall sleep contented.” And then he turned away to welcome fresh arrivals, leaving Sylla and Mrs. Wriothesley to greet their friends and inspect the arrangements made for their entertainment.

And that these had been the result of much thought and preparation was transparent even to the unreflecting. Like an elaborate piece of clockwork, the whole affair was not as yet in motion. But a glance on the foredeck of the steamer showed, mingling amongst the fashionable crowd, Spanish singers with their guitars, Tyrolese joedelers, and some two or three popular comedians, who at times consent to dispel the dreariness of an evening party. Mr. Cottrell even whispered to Mrs. Wriothesley that he should not be at all surprised if the thing was a real success.

“They are young, very young,” he continued, “to undertake the responsibilities of the commissariat; but let us be charitable, and trust that they have had the wisdom to seek sound advice relative to the cookery and champagne.”

Fair though the day might be, yet its opening to the eyes of Lady Mary Bloxam seemed unpropitious in the extreme. Lionel Beauchamp received her and Blanche with grave courtesy, but no more; indeed, his manner to Miss Bloxam touched upon the ceremonious. It was true that as a host he could hardly be expected to devote much time to any individual guest; but still it is very possible to convey a good deal, even in the few words of welcome; and under the circumstances Lady Mary decided that Lionel Beauchamp had greeted them more as acquaintance, whose hospitality it was incumbent on him to return, than as intimate friends whom he was only too delighted to see. He had not lingered to exchange a few words with them as he had with Mrs. Wriothesley and Sylla, and Lady Mary felt filled with dread that her rival had already triumphed, and was receiving, conjointly with Miss Chipchase, the homage of the conquered. Blanche, too, who had already made up her mind that this day was either to set things straight with her and Lionel, or to estrange them for good, felt that there was little likelihood of its ending in the manner she desired. She would scarcely see anything of him in a large party such as this, unless he specially sought her, and she thought now it was improbable he would do that. She bitterly regretted that she had not adhered to her original determination. Nothing can be more dreary than a gay party from which there is no escape when one’s mind is out of tune for society of any description. The idea that for so many hours the conventional smile must be upon our brow, and the conventional nothings upon our lips, is depressing in the extreme. It may be injudicious, but it is certainly allowable, to look sad when the bank that holds our all suddenly falls; but for a woman to acknowledge in her face that the bank of her affections is broke is most indecorous, and shows a want of proper spirit and proper pride pitiful to witness. She may scream if she is pinched; but neither sign nor cry must show that her heart-strings are wrung.

It is well to set your guests eating and drinking betimes on these occasions. The fasting man takes an acrid view of your arrangements compared with that taken by the man who has well fed; and the deferred opening of the supper-room has sealed the fate of many a dance which but for that had been voted pleasant enough. Lionel Beauchamp and his confreres determined to fall into no such mistake. No sooner are their friends on board and the steamer cast off from her moorings than the signal is given for lunch. The day is so fine that it has been decided to go down nearly to the Nore. With scarce a ripple on the water, even those who have no confidence whatever in their sea-going capabilities can feel no terror of mal de mer. The whole affair is an undoubted success. Mr. Cottrell himself pronounces the luncheon not only satisfactory, but indicative of much promise as regards dinner later on. The gay crowd breaks into knots and parties all over the decks. Now listening to the ballad some swarth Spaniard trills forth to his guitar, anon laughing at some buffo song humorously rendered by a well-known comedian, while ever and again Beauchamp and his brethren clear a space on the deck, and a valse or two becomes the order of the day.

“A very charming party, Miss Blanche, don’t you think so?” remarked Mr. Cottrell, as he sauntered up to that young lady’s side. “Have you been forward to look at what they call the ‘Fair’? You can shoot for nuts, look at peep-shows, play roulette for gingerbread; in fact, indulge in all the amusements of childhood.”

“No; the whole thing is no doubt very well done, but I don’t feel myself to-day. I am not quite up to the sort of thing. Stupid of me to come. People should keep themselves to themselves when not in the vein for society.”

“Ah,” rejoined Mr. Cottrell, laughing, “not in the vein for society is a charming phrase. It embraces so much, and defines it so vaguely. Not in the vein for society may mean that we want our lunch; that some one we wanted to meet has not come; that we have fallen to the charge of the wrong person. I always feel that my being in the vein for society depends a good deal upon what the society consists of. Every now and then I get somebody to take down to dinner that makes me sigh for the Desert of Sahara. Now, I wonder what’s wrong with you to-day?”

“Had too much of London, I fancy,” replied Blanche, smiling. “I want to get back to Todborough. These headaches never trouble me there.”

“Who was the shocking old infidel who declared young ladies’ headaches were simply heartaches? What mistakes we make by seeing things as we imagine them, instead of as they actually are! I would lay a small wager, for instance, that your low spirits are the result simply of looking through the wrong end of the telescope.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Mr. Cottrell! I feel a little hipped to-day, but every one does at times. I cannot plead any excuse for it.”

“I am very glad to hear you say that,” replied Cottrell gravely. “I thought perhaps you might be put out by this affair of your brother’s.”

“Affair of my brother’s!” exclaimed Blanche quickly. “Jim surely is in no trouble! Why, he is here!”

“Exactly. No need to assure you he is a very long way off from being in trouble; having, on the contrary, a particularly good time, I should say judging from what I last saw of him. But surely, Miss Blanche, you must have observed that a man’s relations are often moved to tears at the mode in which he takes his pleasure, and, as a rule, always consider they are far more capable of choosing a wife for him than he is.”

“Choosing a wife! Do you mean to tell me Jim is going to be married?”

“I presume so. I can only say he and Miss Chipchase are engaged in a very high-pressure flirtation, if it only means that.”

“Jim going to marry Sylla! Why, I thought” And here Blanche paused abruptly, and a rather compromising blush suffused her face.

“Ah, you thought,” observed Cottrell, “that it was a mere flirtation. Well, there is no doubt that sisters don’t often make a mistake about a brother’s love affair when it comes within their knowledge; but in this instance I venture to think I am right.”

Miss Bloxam’s unnatural blindness to her brother’s growing passion for Sylla Chipchase can be easily accounted for. Neither she nor her mother knew anything about his visits to Hans Place. Jim by no manner of means thought it necessary to call upon his own people every time he came up from Aldershot, and they were consequently unaware even of his being in town five times out of six.

“You must pardon my indiscretion,” resumed Mr. Cottrell; “but I really supposed that Jim must have formally announced it. Ah, Beauchamp, the very man! Spare one moment from your hospitable cares, and receive the congratulations of Miss Bloxam and myself upon the perfection of your arrangements. Everything is admirable; and if ever people deserved the favour of a gorgeous day, you and your companions have done so.”

“To have won the approbation of such an expert as Mr. Cottrell is ample recompense,” replied Lionel, laughing, and making a mock salaam of great humility.

“We thoroughly mean what we say; and in the meantime extend your amiability so far as to give me a cigarette. Miss Blanche, I am sure, will permit it?”

Miss Bloxam bent her head in assent as Lionel Beauchamp produced the identical cigar-case that had so attracted Mr. Cottrell’s attention some two or three nights ago.

“A very pretty case this, is it not?” said Cottrell, as he leisurely selected a cigarette. “In excellent taste; it does the greatest possible credit to the designer. But it is a very curious whim of Beauchamp’s to spell Lionel with a ‘J.’ ‘J.B.,’ you see, would stand for John Bradshaw, Joshua Burton, or even Jim Bloxam; but you can’t possibly make ‘Lionel Beauchamp’ out of it.”

“That will do,” replied Lionel, laughing; “you chaffed me enough about this the other night. Take heed, and remember the motto.”

“A motto, Miss Bloxam,” said Cottrell, “the meaning of which he doth not comprehend.”

“Well, I flatter myself I do,” replied Beauchamp; “but no matter;” and he extended his hand for the case.

“One minute. For fear you should give some spurious version, I will translate it first for Miss Bloxam’s benefit; a lady cannot be supposed to know the meaning of ‘Loquaces si sapiat vitet.’ Listen,” continued Cottrell: “the Latin is a comprehensive language, remember, Si,’ if; ‘sapiat,’ you are not a fool; ‘vitet,’ have nothing to say to; ‘loquaces,’ ladies’ commissions. A wickedly cynical saying to have broidered on one’s case, even if you have found ladies’ commissions troublesome and productive of much inconvenience. But, dear me! Lady Mary is signalling me. I must go and see what it is she wants. Try if you can make him disclose the story of that case, and who it was that commanded him to spell Lionel with a ‘J,’ and not chatter about it afterwards. I plead guilty to a most horrible curiosity on that point.” And so saying, Mr. Cottrell dropped the cigar-case into Blanche’s lap, and crossed the deck in obedience to Lady Mary’s apocryphal signal.

Blanche knew now that her presentiment was fulfilled that the crisis had arrived; and that the next two or three minutes would decide whether she and Lionel Beauchamp were to be all in all to each other, or go their respective ways. Be that as it might, on one point she must absolve herself in his eyes. With somewhat tremulous tones, she hurriedly exclaimed, as she handed the cigar-case back to Lionel,

“I have unwittingly discovered, Mr. Beauchamp, what you refused to tell me some little time ago at Hurlingham; and I hope you believe me when I say that I have never taken any steps to do so; nor, indeed, has any allusion to it passed my lips since.”

“How Mr. Cottrell comes by his knowledge, I cannot say. I think he must possess a ‘familiar’ of some sort; but one thing, Miss Bloxam, I own, puzzles me. Why should you make such a point of my telling you what Sylla’s commission was? I cannot understand it.”

“And I cannot tell you. Surely the caprice of my sex is quite enough to account for it.”

Apparently Lionel Beauchamp did not think so; and seating himself by Miss Bloxam’s side, he proceeded to inquire into this instance of a woman’s whimsies with great earnestness of purpose.

It was, of course, quite evident to Mr. Cottrell that Jim Bloxam had not as yet disclosed to his own people his engagement to Sylla Chipchase; and so delighted was Mr. Cottrell with the theatrical effect that he had just produced, that he felt the sooner he diverted himself by the production of another “situation” the better. He had crossed over to Lady Mary with no other object than the benevolent design of giving Blanche and Lionel an opportunity of clearing up their difference. He accordingly suggested to Lady Mary that they should take a turn forward and see what was going on in that part of the boat.

“It is not only that I wanted you to see what is going on in the fore part of the ship, but I want you not to see what is going on aft. I want to open your eyes to Mrs. Wriothesley’s machinations, and to steel your heart against Lionel Beauchamp’s perfidy.”

“Lionel Beauchamp’s perfidy! Good gracious, Pansey, what do you mean?”

“That I will lay you a small wager Lionel Beauchamp has stolen your daughter from you before we get back no, don’t interrupt me. Those foolish young people, finding their courtship was running too smooth, indulged themselves in the luxury of a mock quarrel about what, shall we say? well, a packet of lemon-drops would about represent the state of the case. However, as you know, quarrels about nothing sometimes assume portentous proportions; but I am happy to think that I have just put things right between those two.”

“I only hope what you tell me is true. You know how much I have Blanche’s settlement at heart.”

“Yes, there is something about water parties that predisposes to flirtation. Atlantic voyages and trips to India are notorious for fostering such sweet frivolity. I really feel quite afraid of walking about to-day for dread of unknowingly interfering. It wouldn’t be discreet, for instance, to intrude upon that couple so snugly ensconced under the shelter of the paddle-box. I don’t know, but he is telling her secrets, I presume.”

“Why, it is Sylla Chipchase!” exclaimed Lady Mary. “I cannot see who is her victim; but of course she would never neglect such a golden opportunity as to-day’s.”

“Hush!” replied Cottrell, drily; “the companion of her delinquency, remember, is Jim.”

“Why, you surely don’t mean to tell me” exclaimed Lady Mary.

“Very much so,” rejoined Cottrell; “and the sooner you make up your mind to take it au serieux the better.”

Poor Lady Mary! Mr. Cottrell’s dramatic disclosures were getting a little too much for her.

Before they had reached Westminster Bridge Blanche and Sylla knew that they were to be sisters, and there had been much quiet laughter amongst the four whom it chiefly concerned about the story of the cigar-case.

“I still don’t understand,” said Beauchamp, “why you should have so resented my keeping Sylla’s commission secret?”

“And never will, Lionel, until you comprehend of what a jealous woman’s imagination is capable.”

“I can’t see,” whispered Jim, “why I was kept so long out of my cigar-case?”

It was in his possession at last.

“O you stupid Jim!” said Sylla softly, “don’t you see it was so easy to give it you before I knew I loved you, and

“Well, and what?” inquired Bloxam.

“It was so difficult afterwards, until I knew you loved me.”

The bells of Todborough rang bravely out one morning early in the autumn for a double marriage, and, as Mr. Cottrell wickedly whispered to one of his intimates, for the Millennium besides. The lion was lying down with the lamb. Mrs. Wriothesley was an honoured guest at the Grange.