rked to her pupil, a good cook was the best
introduction to society. If the company was not as select as the CUISINE,
the Welly Brys at least had the satisfaction of figuring for the first
time in the society columns in company with one or two noticeable names;
and foremost among these was of course Miss Bart's. The young lady was
treated by her hosts with corresponding deference; and she was in the
mood when such attentions are acceptable, whatever their source. Mrs.
Bry's admiration was a mirror in which Lily's self-complacency recovered
its lost outline. No insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those
which will sustain the weight of human vanity; and the sense of being of
importance among the insignificant was enough to restore to Miss Bart the
gratifying consciousness of power. If these people paid court to her it
proved that she was still conspicuous in the world to which they aspired;
and she was not above a certain enjoyment in dazzling them by her
fineness, in developing their puzzled perception of her superiorities.

Perhaps, however, her enjoyment proceeded more than she was aware from
the physical stimulus of the excursion, the challenge of crisp cold and
hard exercise, the responsive thrill of her body to the influences of the
winter woods. She returned to town in a glow of rejuvenation, conscious
of a clearer colour in her cheeks, a fresh elasticity in her muscles. The
future seemed full of a vague promise, and all her apprehensions were
swept out of sight on the buoyant current of her mood.

A few days after her return to town she had the unpleasant surprise of a
visit from Mr. Rosedale. He came late, at the confidential hour when the
tea-table still lingers by the fire in friendly expectancy; and his
manner showed a readiness to adapt itself to the intimacy of the occasion.

Lily, who had a vague sense of his being somehow connected with her lucky
speculations, tried to give him the welcome he expected; but there was
something in the quality of his geniality which chilled her own, and she
was conscious of marking each step in their acquaintance by a fresh
blunder.

Mr. Rosedale--making himself promptly at home in an adjoining easy-chair,
and sipping his tea critically, with the comment: "You ought to go to my
man for something really good"--appeared totally unconscious of the
repugnance which kept her in frozen erectness behind the urn. It was
perhaps her very manner of holding herself aloof that