“MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets. Manning. A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the peals of merriment, and other noises, that, ever and anon, resounded from within, that this chamber was occupied by the Marquis and his friends. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Well, this is OUR thing. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. "Tomorrow I shall have a visitor. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends.
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