us; for the fashionable world of London had had no
intimation yet that their favorite singer was ill-disposed towards them,
and had even at times formed sullen resolutions of withdrawing
altogether from their brilliant rooms. As he quite indifferently turned
the packages and letters over, trying to guess at the name of the sender
by the address, he said to himself,

"They toss you those things out of their bounty as they fling a shilling
to a crossing-sweeper because it is Christmas-day."

But here was one that he opened, recognizing the handwriting of his
cousin Francie; and Francie had sent him a very pretty pair of blue
velvet slippers, with his initials worked by herself in thread of gold.
That was all right, for he had got for Miss Francie a little present
that he was about to take down with him--a hand-bag in green lizard-skin
that might be useful to her when she was going on her numerous errands.
It was different with the next packet he opened (also recognizing the
writing), for this was a paper-weight--an oblong slab of crystal set in
silver, with a photograph of the sender showing through, and the
inscription at the foot, "To Lionel Moore, from his sincere friend,
K.B." And he had never thought of getting anything for Miss Burgoyne!
Well, it was too late now; he would have to atone for his neglect of her
when he returned to town. Meanwhile he recollected that just about now
she would be getting down to Victoria station _en route_ to Brighton;
and, indeed, had it not been for the duty he owed the old people, he
would have been well content to be going with her. The last time he had
been in a Pullman car on the way to Brighton it was with other
friends--or acquaintances; he knew his place now, and was resigned. So
he continued opening these parcels and envelopes carelessly and somewhat
ungratefully, merely glancing at the various messages, until it was time
to bethink him of setting forth.

But first of all, when the cab had been summoned and his portmanteau put
on the top, he told the man to drive to a certain number in Sloane
Street; he thought he would call for a minute on Mrs. Grey and Miss
Girond and wish them a pleasant Christmas. Estelle, when she made her
appearance, knew better what had brought him hither.

"Ah, it is so kind of you to send me the pretty work-case--thank you,
thank you very much; and Mrs. Grey is so proud of the beautiful
lamp--she will tell you in a moment when she comes in. And if t