ind another."

She was silent a moment, finished her cake, then took some grapes, and
began to play with them in the same conscious provocative way--till at
last she turned upon her immediate neighbor, a young barrister with a
broad boyish face.

"Well, I wonder whether _you'd_ mind?"

"Mind what?"

"If your father had done something shocking--forged--or murdered--or
done something of that kind--supposing, of course, he were dead."

"Do you mean--if I suddenly found out?"

She nodded assent.

"Well!" he reflected; "it would be disagreeable!"

"Yes--but would it make you give up all the things you
like?--golfing--and cards--and parties--and the girl you were engaged
to--and take to slumming, and that kind of thing?"

The slight inflection of the last words drew smiles. Mr. Ferrier held
up a finger.

"Miss Alicia, I shall lend you no more books."

"Why? Because I can't appreciate them?"

Mr. Ferrier laughed.

"I maintain that book is a book to melt the heart of a stone."

"Well, I tried to cry," said the girl, putting another grape into her
mouth, and quietly nodding at her interlocutor--"I did--honor bright.
But--really--what does it matter what your father did?"

"My _dear!_" said Lady Lucy, softly. Her singularly white and finely
wrinkled face, framed in a delicate capote of old lace, looked coldly at
the speaker.

"By-the-way," said Mr. Ferrier, "does not the question rather concern
you in this neighborhood? I hear young Brenner has just come to live at
West Hill. I don't now what sort of a youth he is, but if he's a decent
fellow, I don't imagine anybody will boycott him on account of his
father's misdoings."

He referred to one of the worst financial scandals of the preceding
generation. Lady Lucy made no answer, but any one closely observing her
might have noticed a sudden and sharp stiffening of the lips, which was
in truth her reply.

"Oh, you can always ask a man like that to garden-parties!" said a
shrill, distant voice. The group round the table turned. The remark was
made by old Lady Niton, who sat enthroned in an arm-chair near the fire,
sometimes knitting, and sometimes observing her neighbors with a
malicious eye.

"Anything's good enough, isn't it, for garden-parties?" said Mrs.
Fotheringham, with a little sneer.

Lady Niton's face kindled. "Let us be Radicals, my dear," she said,
briskly, "but not hypocrites. Garden-parties are invaluable--for people
you can't ask into the hou