Smash went his house of cards into a jumbled heap. It collapsed from a lofty height. Lady Jane Thorne!
No use trying to lord it over her! She was the real thing! Couldn't put on "lugs" with her,—not a bit of it! She knew!
His monocle dropped. He tried to catch it. Missed!
"My word!" he mumbled, as he stooped over to retrieve it from the rug at his feet. The exertion sent a ruddy glow to his neck and ears and brow.
"Did you break it?" cried Mrs. Millidew.
He stuck it in his waist-coat pocket without examination.
"This is Miss Emsdale, our governess," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis. "She's an English girl, Mr. Moody."
"Glad to meet you," stammered Mr. Moody, desperately.
"How do you do, Mr. Moody," said Jane, in the most matter-of-fact way.
Mr. Moody knew that she was a paid governess. He had known it for many months. But that didn't alter the case. She was the "real thing." He couldn't put on any "side" with her. He couldn't bring himself to it, not if his life depended on it. Not even if she had been a scullery-maid and appeared before him in greasy ginghams. All very well to "stick it on" with these fashionable New Yorkers, but when it came to the daughter of the Earl of Wexham,—well, it didn't matter what she was as long as he knew who she was.
His mask was off.
The change in his manner was so abrupt, so com-
