that material, being, like the
pillars, of brick within.

To a stone mask worn by a brick face a story naturally appertained--one
which has since done service in other quarters. When the vast addition
had just been completed King George visited Enckworth. Its owner pointed
out the features of its grand architectural attempt, and waited for
commendation.

'Brick, brick, brick,' said the king.

The Georgian Lord Mountclere blushed faintly, albeit to his very poll,
and said nothing more about his house that day. When the king was gone
he sent frantically for the craftsmen recently dismissed, and soon the
green lawns became again the colour of a Nine-Elms cement wharf. Thin
freestone slabs were affixed to the whole series of fronts by copper
cramps and dowels, each one of substance sufficient to have furnished a
poor boy's pocket with pennies for a month, till not a speck of the
original surface remained, and the edifice shone in all the grandeur of
massive masonry that was not massive at all. But who remembered this
save the builder and his crew? and as long as nobody knew the truth,
pretence looked just as well.

What was honest in Enckworth Court was that portion of the original
edifice which still remained, now degraded to subservient uses. Where
the untitled Mountclere of the White Rose faction had spread his knees
over the brands, when the place was a castle and not a court, the still-
room maid now simmered her preserves; and where Elizabethan mothers and
daughters of that sturdy line had tapestried the love-scenes of Isaac and
Jacob, boots and shoes were now cleaned and coals stowed away.

Lord Mountclere had so far recovered from the sprain as to be nominally
quite well, under pressure of a wish to receive guests. The sprain had
in one sense served him excellently. He had now a reason, apart from
that of years, for walking with his stick, and took care to let the
reason be frequently known. To-day he entertained a larger number of
persons than had been assembled within his walls for a great length of
time.

Until after dinner Ethelberta felt as if she were staying at an hotel.
Few of the people whom she had met at the meeting of the Imperial
Association greeted her here. The viscount's brother was not present,
but Sir Cyril Blandsbury and his wife were there, a lively pair of
persons, entertaining as actors, and friendly as dogs. Beyond these all
the faces and figures were new to her, though they