came grandly on, did mamma fit?—unless that of an actress, in some tremendous situation, sweeping down to the footlights as if she would jump them. Maisie felt really frightened and before she knew it had passed her hand into Sir Claude's arm. Her pressure caused him to stop, and at the sight of this the other couple came equally to a stand and, beyond the diminished space, remained a moment more, in talk. This, however, was the matter of an instant; leaving the Baron apparently to come round more circuitously—an outflanking movement if Maisie had but known—her ladyship resumed the direct approach. "What will she do?" her daughter articulated.
Sir Claude was now in a position to say. "Try to pretend it 's me."
"You?"
"Why, that I 'm up to something."
In another minute poor Ida had justified this prediction, erect there before them like a figure of justice in full dress. There were parts of her face that grew whiter while Maisie looked, and other parts in which this change seemed to make other colors reign with more intensity. "What are you doing with my daughter?" she demanded of her
