ptory interruption.

"I must see them again to-morrow," said Cecily, in her pleasantest
voice.

At table, the ladies were in a majority. Mr. Bradshaw was the only man
past middle life. Next in age to him came Mr. Musselwhite, who looked
about forty, and whose aquiline nose, high forehead, light bushy
whiskers, and air of vacant satisfaction, marked him as the aristocrat
of the assembly. This gentleman suffered under a truly aristocratic
affliction--the ever-reviving difficulty of passing his day. Mild in
demeanour, easy in the discharge of petty social obligations, perfectly
inoffensive, he came and went like a vivified statue of gentlemanly
_ennui_. Every morning there arrived for him a consignment of English
newspapers; these were taken to his bedroom at nine o'clock, together
with a cup of chocolate. They presumably occupied him until he appeared
in the drawing-room, just before the hour of luncheon, when, in spite
of the freshness of his morning attire, he seemed already burdened by
the blank of time, always sitting down to the meal with an audible sigh
of gratitude. Invariably he addressed to his neighbour a remark on the
direction of the smoke from Vesuvius. If the neighbour happened to be
uninformed in things Neapolitan, Mr. Musselwhite seized the occasion to
explain at length the meteorologic significance of these varying fumes.
Luncheon over, he rose like one who is summoned to a painful duty; in
fact, the great task of the day was before him--the struggle with time
until the hour of dinner. You would meet him sauntering sadly about the
gardens of the Villa Nazionale, often looking at his watch, which he
always regulated by the cannon of Sant' Elmo: or gazing with
lack-lustre eye at a shop-window in the Toledo; or sitting with a
little glass of Marsala before him in one of the fashionable _cafes_,
sunk in despondency. But when at length he appeared at the
dinner-table, once more fresh from his toilet, then did a gleam of
animation transform his countenance; for the victory was won; yet again
was old time defeated. Then he would discourse his best. Two topics
were his: the weather, and "my brother the baronet's place in
Lincolnshire." The manner of his monologue on this second and more
fruitful subject was really touching. When so fortunate as to have a
new listener, he began by telling him or her that he was his father's
fourth son, and consequently third brother to Sir Grant
Musselwhite--"who goes in so much