, Miss Tyrrell was certainly the one whose
presence would least allow itself to be overlooked. Her appetite was
hearty, but it scarcely interfered with the free flow of her airy talk,
which was independent of remark or reply from her companions. Though it
was not apparent in her demeanour, this young lady was suffering under
a Calamity; her second 'season' had been ruined at its very culmination
by a ludicrous _contretemps_ in the shape of an attack of measles. Just
when she flattered herself that she had never looked so lovely, an
instrument of destiny embraced her in the shape of an affectionate
child, and lo! she was a fright. Her constitution had soon thrown off
the evil thing, but Mrs. Tyrrell decreed her banishment for a time to
the remote dwelling of her literary uncle. Once more Paula was lovely,
and yet one could scarcely say that the worst was over, seeing that she
was constrained to pass summer days within view of Helvellyn when she
might have been in Piccadilly.

Mr. Newthorpe seldom interrupted his niece's monologue, but his eye
often rested upon her, seemingly in good-natured speculation, and he
bent his head acquiescingly when she put in a quick 'Don't you think
so?' after a running series of comments on some matter which smacked
exceedingly of the town. He was not more than five-and-forty, yet had
thin, grizzled hair, and a sallow face with lines of trouble deeply
scored upon it. His costume was very careless--indeed, all but
slovenly--and his attitude in the chair showed, if not weakness of
body, at all events physical indolence.

Some word that fell from Paula prompted him to ask:

'I wonder where Egremont is?'

Annabel, who had been sunk in thought, looked up with a smile. She was
about to say something, but her cousin replied rapidly:

'Oh, Mr. Egremont is in London--at least, he was a month ago.'

'Not much of a guarantee that he is there now,' Mr. Newthorpe rejoined.

'I'll drop him a line and see,' said Paula. 'I meant to do so
yesterday, but forgot. I'll write and tell him to send me a full
account of himself. Isn't it too bad that people don't write to me?
Everybody forgets you when you're out of town in the season. Now you'll
see I shan't have a single letter again this morning; it is the
cruellest thing!'

'But you had a letter yesterday, Paula,' Annabel remarked.

'A letter? Oh, from mamma; that doesn't count. A letter isn't a letter
unless you feel anxious to see what's in it. I kn