. Her figure was neat, and her
face had a sort of nervous deprecating expression, that made you look at
it a second time. Nevertheless, she was always deeply engaged, and
generally to the best goers in the room. She was a good performer
herself, but this would not account for it; ninety-nine girls out of
every hundred are that, after two seasons' practice. Those who were in
the secret did not wonder at her luck. She was the _ame damnee_ of Flora
Bellasys.

Whenever the latter ventured on any unusually daring escapade, she was
always really accompanied by Miss Thornton, or supposed to be so. How
the influence was originally acquired I know not; at the time I speak of
she had no more volition left than a Russian Grenadier. She had some
principles of action once, I suppose, and considered herself as an
accountable being; but all such vanities her "dashing white sergeant"
had drilled out of her long ago. Poor thing! It was no wonder that the
frightened look had become habitual to her face, and that she always
spoke with reserve and constraint, as if to guard against the
chance-betrayal of some terrible secret. It was no sinecure, her
office--alternately scapegoat and _confidante_. My own idea is, that
having still a little feeble remnant of a conscience remaining, she
suffered agonies of remorse at times in the latter capacity. Dancing was
her great--almost her only pleasure, and Flora certainly provided her
regularly with partners. Indeed, some one had irreverently designated
Miss Thornton as The Turnpike, inasmuch as, before securing a waltz with
the beauty, it was necessary to pay toll in the shape of a duty-dance
with her _protegee_. Rose's gratitude was boundless. She never wearied
in rendering small services to her patroness. She would write her notes
for her, as La Raffe did for Richelieu, and fetch and carry like the
best of retrievers; venturing every now and then on a timid caress,
which was permitted rather than accepted with an imperial nonchalance.
The only subject on which she ever expanded into eloquence was the
fascinations of her friend. She spent all her weak breath in blowing
that laudatory trumpet, as if she expected the defenses of the best
guarded heart to fall prostrate before it, like the walls of Jericho.
And yet, if all the truth were known, I think she had as much reason to
complain as the dwarf in the story who swore fellowship in arms with the
giant.

I was sorry to see Livingstone linger at h