them laughing, they were all of them talking--the
comfortable hum of their voices was at its loudest; the cheery pealing
of the laughter was soaring to its highest notes--when one dominant
voice, rising clear and shrill above all the rest, called imperatively
for silence. The moment after, a young lady stepped into the vacant
space in front of the summer-house, and surveyed the throng of guests as
a general in command surveys a regiment under review.

She was young, she was pretty, she was plump, she was fair. She was not
the least embarrassed by her prominent position. She was dressed in the
height of the fashion. A hat, like a cheese-plate, was tilted over her
forehead. A balloon of light brown hair soared, fully inflated, from the
crown of her head. A cataract of beads poured over her bosom. A pair of
cock-chafers in enamel (frightfully like the living originals) hung at
her ears. Her scanty skirts shone splendid with the blue of heaven. Her
ankles twinkled in striped stockings. Her shoes were of the sort called
"Watteau." And her heels were of the height at which men shudder, and
ask themselves (in contemplating an otherwise lovable woman), "Can this
charming person straighten her knees?"

The young lady thus presenting herself to the general view was Miss
Blanche Lundie--once the little rosy Blanche whom the Prologue has
introduced to the reader. Age, at the present time, eighteen. Position,
excellent. Money, certain. Temper, quick. Disposition, variable. In a
word, a child of the modern time--with the merits of the age we live in,
and the failings of the age we live in--and a substance of sincerity and
truth and feeling underlying it all.

"Now then, good people," cried Miss Blanche, "silence, if you please! We
are going to choose sides at croquet. Business, business, business!"

Upon this, a second lady among the company assumed a position of
prominence, and answered the young person who had just spoken with a
look of mild reproof, and in a tone of benevolent protest.

The second lady was tall, and solid, and five-and-thirty. She presented
to the general observation a cruel aquiline nose, an obstinate straight
chin, magnificent dark hair and eyes, a serene splendor of fawn-colored
apparel, and a lazy grace of movement which was attractive at
first sight, but inexpressibly monotonous and wearisome on a longer
acquaintance. This was Lady Lundie the Second, now the widow (after four
months only of married life)