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The door opened, and a servant presented her with a card. It bore the words, 'Mr. Bristow, 96 Bedford-row.' She knew the name to be that of the family solicitor, a gentleman enjoying an exceptionally confidential position, and who was in the habit of dining with them once or twice in the season; and she gave orders for his admission.

Mr. Bristow, a tall, white-haired, white-whiskered man, scrupulously clean and very neatly attired, appeared in the doorway, and made a grave bow.

'How do you do, Mr. Bristow?' said Lady Forestfield, rising from her chair. 'It is seldom you give us the pleasure of a visit, but I am very glad to see you.'

'I am come, Lady Forestfield,' said Mr. Bristow, 'on peculiarly painful business.'

'Painful business!' she echoed, with a sudden sinking at her heart.

'Very painful business,' he repeated. 'I have,' he added, drawing a paper from his pocket, 'to serve this paper upon you.'

'What is it?' she added, shrinking back.

'It is a citation from the Divorce Court,' said Mr. Bristow, 'which I serve upon you on behalf of Lord Forestfield. Be good enough to sit down and read it.'