me to
understand I'm quite the other thing, whatever that may be. Very full
house, don't you think, and awfully swagger? What's Lady Patricia got
on her? She is slightly terrifying, don't you think?"

"She isn't very well got up, certainly," says Clarissa, reluctantly.

"She's anyhow," says Mr. Branscombe, freely; and then his eyes fall
upon Georgie, who is gazing, in her rapt, childish fashion, at the
singer of the moment; and then he doesn't speak again for a little
while.

"Is Horace quite well?" asks Clarissa, presently.

"Quite well. He always is, you know. Who----who is the girl next your
father?"

"That is my friend, Georgie Broughton. I think I told you about her.
She is governess at the vicarage, now. Is she not lovely,--quite
sweet?" asks Clarissa, eagerly.

But Mr. Branscombe does not answer her. He is still staring at the
unconscious Georgie, and seems almost deaf to Clarissa's praise of
her. At this Miss Peyton is somewhat disgusted, and declines any
further attempt at laudation.

"A governess!" he says, at length, raising his brows, but without
removing his eyes from the fair and perfect face that, even now, he
tells himself, is without its equal.

"Yes. She is none the less sweet for that," says Clarissa, rather
coldly. She tells herself it is unlike Dorian to look down upon any
one because he or she may be in a worse position than his own.

"They are going to sing again," she says, in a tone she seldom uses to
him: "we must not talk, you know." She had some faint idea of
introducing him to Georgie, but she abandons it, and gives him to
understand that she has at present nothing more to say to him.

Whether he quite comprehends all she intends to convey, I know not;
but, raising himself slowly from his lounging position on the back of
her chair, he takes a last look at Georgie's profile, and moves into
the background.

"Good-evening, Branscombe," says Lord Alfred, presently; and Dorian,
finding himself beside him, returns the greeting, and props himself up
in his turn against the friendly wall, that shows its appreciation of
them by giving them finely whitewashed coats.

The concert is getting on swimmingly. As yet no flaw has occurred to
mark the brilliancy of its success. The opening chorus has been
applauded to the echo, especially by Lord Alfred, who feels it his
duty to do something, and who keeps on applauding, in the most
open-hearted manner each thing and everything, until he disc