speaks in italics whenever she gets the slightest
chance.

"So glad you are pleased," says the vicar, genially. "Yes, she is as
beautiful as her voice. After all, I think the concert will prove a
success."

"It _has_ proved itself one," says Mrs. Grey, who adores the vicar,
and would flirt with him if she dared. "But when do you fail in
anything you undertake? Really, dear Mr. Redmond, you should not let
the idea die out. You should give us a good time like this at least
once in every month, and than see what _delicious_ windows you could
have. I for one"--coquettishly--"will promise to come to _every_ one
of them."

"At that rate, I should soon have no poor to look after," says the
gratified vicar, gayly.

"And a good thing, too. The poor are always so oppressive, and--er--so
_dirty_, but still"--seeing a change in his face--"_very_
interesting,--_very_!"

And then the concert comes to an end, and adieux are said, and fresh
congratulations poured out, so to speak, upon the Redmonds; and then
every one goes home.

Dorian Branscombe climbs into his dog-cart, and drives swiftly
homeward, under the glistening stars, whose "beauty makes
unhappy,"--his mind filled with many thoughts.

"'My love, my pearl!'"--the words of Georgie's song haunt him
incessantly, and ring their changes on his brain. "What words could be
more appropriate, more suited to her?" (Alas, when we come to pronouns
it is generally all over with us!) "A pearl! so fair! so pure! so
solitary! It just expressed her. By what right has Fate cast that
pretty child upon the cruel world to take her chance, to live or die
in it?

"How large her eyes are, and what a heavenly blue, and what a sad
expression lies within them! 'Grandmamma, grandmamma, what big eyes
you have!'" Here he rouses himself, and laughs a little, and wishes,
with some petulance, that he could put her out of his head.

"'My love, my pearl!' Yes, it was a very pretty song, and haunts one
somehow; but no doubt a good night's sleep will kill it. Hold up, you
brute,"--this to the kind and patient mare, who is doing her good nine
miles an hour, and who has mildly objected to a sharp stone. "Why
didn't Clarissa introduce me to her? I wish to goodness I hadn't to go
back to town to-morrow!" And so on, until he reaches Sartoris, and
flings himself, with some impatience, out of the trap, to the
amazement of his groom, who is accustomed to think of his master as a
young man to whom exertion