"Oh! no. I shall go alone. It is only one of their deadly musical
evenings, with about three second-rate professionals, and a sprinkling
of local talent. The Misses Hillier play the harp and violin, with
particularly red arms and bony elbows, their sister-in-law sings in a
throaty contralto, and the ices run out before ten."

"Is Mrs. Mounteagle asked?"

"They don't know each other, and Giddy is so glad. It gives her nearly
a fit to look at them."

"Ah! yes, I remember Mrs. Hillier telling me she had not called."

"Now you are beginning again. And just as we had made it up, too,"
putting her hand over Philip's mouth.

"Well, I'll say no more. At least, I shall have the satisfaction of
knowing you won't be with her to-night."

"Poor Giddy!" sighs Eleanor as he leaves; "how she is misjudged!"

"Mrs. Mounteagle," announces Sarah.

"How do, dear?" cries the widow sweetly, pressing Eleanor's cheek.

Then, as the door closes: "I don't like that maid of yours, she shows
one in as if one were a dressmaker or sister of mercy, and always looks
at me as if my bonnet were crooked. You really ought to get a man, it
gives such a much better appearance to the place."

"I do not believe Philip would have one."

"My dear, a man is the last subject I should ever think of consulting
my husband on. By-the-way, Eleanor, my _fiance_ has turned up again.
You know he went abroad to grow, and was not to come back for six
months, but three seem to have nearly killed him. He has had typhoid
fever in Antwerp, and then took a trip to New York, where he got
jaundice. I must introduce you next Sunday, he is going to drive down."

"You never told me his name."

"Didn't I? _Bertie_--Herbert Dallison."

"Oh!" with an expressive intonation. "Is he fond of ices?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"They are very unwholesome, and--and you said he had been ill."

"You are going to the Hilliers' to-night," Mrs. Mounteagle says,
unfolding a parcel on her lap. "You intend wearing your white silk, I
believe."

"Yes. It is good enough for them."

"I should think so, the cut of the skirt is lovely, but I am not
altogether satisfied with the severe bodice. I want you to wear this
fichu of mine, it is a perfect gem."

She holds out a cloud of spangled gauze.

"How lovely!" cries Eleanor, flinging her arms round the widow's neck.

"You're very welcome to it."

"Philip is deserting me to-night," continues Eleanor--"business in
L