babyish sort of faces that appeal so strongly to some men; her manners
were kittenish and full of vivacity, and she had a way of glancing at a
person from under her long curling lashes that was considered very
alluring. "Do please be good and kind to a poor little harmless thing
like me," they seemed to say to each fresh comer, "for you are such a
nice man;" but Malcolm, who saw plenty of girls in town, took no notice
of a little country chit's airs and graces; indeed, he thought Nora
Brent far more attractive--human kittens not being to his taste.

"I don't think much of the fine gentleman from London," whispered Tina
rather venomously to Nora when the game was finished. "I hate a town
prig like poison."

"Anyhow he played splendidly, and has given us a regular beating,"
returned her friend, who would willingly have exchanged partners. There
was nothing exciting in playing with an old friend like David Carlyon,
who was a sort of connection of the Brents, indeed, a distant, a very
distant cousin: but Malcolm's dark intellectual face and rather
melancholy eyes somewhat attracted Nora.

Nora had her wish presently, and again Mr. Carlyon was Malcolm's
opponent; this time a Miss Douglas was his partner. It was a
well-contested game, but again Malcolm was the victor; but he wore his
honours meekly.

"Bravo, Mr. Herrick, and you too, Nora," exclaimed Elizabeth, clapping
her hands, "you both played splendidly; now come into the hall and let
me give you some claret cup;" but she lingered a moment until Mr.
Carlyon came up with his partner.

"I am not in good form to-day," he said, sinking into an easy-chair as
though he were tired. "I feel Mondayish--do you know what I mean,
Herrick?"

"I can guess. It is a purely clerical term. You have taken it out of
yourself, and then you feel a sort of reaction--or rather, to speak
more correctly, a sort of depression;" but as he spoke, he realised for
the first time the truth of Elizabeth's assertion that Mr. Carlyon was
not strong.

Elizabeth had never looked better in Malcolm's opinion than she did
that afternoon; if he had not admired her before, he must have owned
then that she was a distinguished-looking woman.

She wore a gray dress of some soft material, which Malcolm, who was
rather a connoisseur on feminine attire, decided in his own mind was a
Paris gown,--strange to say, he was right,--and the black Gainsborough
hat and feathers suited her exactly. It was evident Mr