posing personage was this Sir Anthony,
standing with one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced,
evidently with a view to the gratification of his contemporaries and
posterity. You might have taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarlet
cloak, which was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilating
the dignity of his appearance. And he had known how to choose a wife,
too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hair
drawn away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two large
rich curls on her snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hue
and outline of her white satin robe, was a fit mother of 'large-acred'
heirs.

In this room tea was served; and here, every evening, as regularly as the
great clock in the court-yard with deliberate bass tones struck nine, Sir
Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet until half-past ten,
when Mr. Gilfil read prayers to the assembled household in the chapel.

But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down to the
harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher's favourite airs from Gluck's
'Orfeo', an opera which, for the happiness of that generation, was then
to be heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that the
sentiment of these airs, '_Che faro senza Eurydice?_' and '_Ho perduto il
bel sembiante_', in both of which the singer pours out his yearning after
his lost love, came very close to Caterina's own feeling. But her
emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her additional
power. Her singing was what she could do best; it was her one point of
superiority, in which it was probable she would excel the highborn beauty
whom Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her
rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welled
forth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto,
which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful to
preserve her from straining.

'Excellent, Caterina,' said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after the
wonderful linked sweetness of '_Che faro_'. 'I never heard you sing that
so well. Once more!'

It was repeated; and then came, 'Ho perduto', which Sir Christopher
encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. When the last note
was dying out he said--'There's a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out
the table for picquet.'

Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, with her