CHAPTER I.--_Despare!

It was Midnite! The bewtifool Countess of Belgravier sat at the hopen winder of her Boodwar gazing on the full moon witch was jest a rising up above the hopposite chimbleys. Why was that evenly face, that princes had loved and Poets sillybrated, bathed in tears? How offen had she, wile setting at that hopen winder, washed it with Oder Colone, to remove the stanes of them tell tail tears? But all in wane, they wood keep running down that bewtifool face as if enamelled with its buty; and quite heedless of how they was a spiling of her new ivory cullered sattin dress that Maddam Elise’s yung ladies had been a workin on up to five a clock that werry arternoon.

She had bin to the great ball of the Season, to be washupped as usual by the world of Fashun, but wot had driven her home at the hunerthly hour of harf-parst Eleven? Ah, that cruel blo, that deadly pang, that despairin shok, must be kep for the nex chapter.