der a
cloud, that you don't blow one?"

"Blanche, Blanche," said her mother, in sweet reproof. "Mr. Malbone,
what shall I do with this wild girl? Such a light way of talking! But
I can assure you that she is really very fond of the society of
intellectual, superior men. I often tell her that they are, after all,
her most congenial associates. More so than the young and giddy."

"You'd better believe it," said the unabashed damsel. "Take notice that
whenever I go to a dinner-party I look round for a clergyman to drink
wine with."

"Incorrigible!" said the caressing mother. "Mr. Malbone would hardly
imagine you had been bred in a Christian land."

"I have, though," retorted Blanche. "My esteemed parent always
accustomed me to give up something during Lent,--champagne, or the New
York Herald, or something."

The young men roared, and, had time and cosmetics made it possible, Mrs.
Ingleside would have blushed becomingly. After all, the daughter was
the better of the two. Her bluntness was refreshing beside the mother's
suavity; she had a certain generosity, too, and in a case of real
destitution would have lent her best ear-rings to a friend.

By this time Malbone had edged himself to Emilia's side. "Will you drive
with me?" he murmured in an undertone.

She nodded slightly, abruptly, and he withdrew again.

"It seems barbarous," said he aloud, "to break up the party. But I must
claim my promised drive with Miss Emilia."

Blanche looked up, for once amazed, having heard a different programme
arranged. Count Posen looked up also. But he thought he must have
misunderstood Emilia's acceptance of his previous offer to drive her;
and as he prided himself even more on his English than on his gallantry,
he said no more. It was no great matter. Young Jones's dog-cart was at
the door, and always opened eagerly its arms to anybody with a title.

XII. A NEW ENGAGEMENT.

TEN days later Philip came into Aunt Jane's parlor, looking excited and
gloomy, with a letter in his hand. He put it down on her table without
its envelope,--a thing that always particularly annoyed her. A letter
without its envelope, she was wont to say, was like a man without a
face, or a key without a string,--something incomplete, preposterous.
As usual, however, he strode across her prejudices, and said, "I have
something to tell you. It is a fact."

"Is it?" said Aunt Jane, curtly. "That is refreshing in these times."

"A good beginning," sa