tened to free himself,
she returned a look which impudently bade him try. Horace had all her
faults by heart, and no longer tried to think that he respected her, or
that, if he married such a girl, his life could possibly be a happy one;
but she still played upon his passions, and at her beck he followed like
a dog.

The hostess, Mrs. Dane, a woman who looked as if she had once been
superior to the kind of life she now led, welcomed him with peculiar
warmth, and in a quick confidential voice bade him keep near her for a
few minutes.

'There's some one I want to introduce you to--some one I'm sure you will
like to know.'

Obeying her, he soon lost sight of Fanny; but Mrs. Dane continued to
talk, at intervals, in such a flattering tone, that his turbid emotions
were soothed. He had heard of the Chittles? No? They were very old
friends of hers, said Mrs. Dane, and she particularly wanted him to know
them. Ah, here they came; mother and daughter. Horace observed them.
Mrs. Chittle was a frail, worn, nervous woman, who must once have been
comely; her daughter, a girl of two-and-twenty, had a pale, thin face of
much sweetness and gentleness. They seemed by no means at home in this
company; but Mrs. Chittle, when she conversed, assumed a vivacious air;
the daughter, trying to follow her example, strove vainly against an
excessive bashfulness, and seldom raised her eyes. Why he should be
expected to pay special attention to these people, Horace was at a loss
to understand; but Mrs. Chittle attached herself to him, and soon led
him into familiar dialogue. He learnt from her that they had lived for
two or three years in a very quiet country place; they had come up for
the season, but did not know many people. She spoke of her daughter, who
stood just out of earshot,--her eyes cast down, on her face a sad fixed
smile,--and said that it had been necessary almost to force her into
society. 'She loves the country, and is so fond of books; but at her age
it's really a shame to live like a nun--don't you think so, Mr. Lord?'
Decidedly it was, said Horace. 'I'm doing my best,' pursued Mrs.
Chittle, 'to cure her of her shyness. She is really afraid of
people--and it's such a pity. She says that the things people talk about
don't interest her; but _all_ people are not frivolous--are they, Mr.
Lord?' Horace hoped not; and presently out of mere good-nature he tried
to converse with the young lady in a way that should neither alarm her
s