ABSTRACT
A quarter-past nine on the following Saturday evening found our heroine and her uncle at a supper tea in the Legate’s back drawing-room in Westminster. The conversation at table was light; Lesbia, who, as we have seen before, had a talent for mimicry, entertained her host, a man of the world, whose guests felt no gêne, by reproducing the ludicrous parts of the Parliamentary debate at which she had been present since they last met. When they afterwards seated themselves in easy chairs in the larger room, another sort of debate began, the final results of which proved to be in no manner a screaming farce.
