"Well, you are right, little m'amselle. I
have no right to make observations; I, who am
merely a poor valet de pied promoted to the
chamber since our establishment has been
reduced. Old Rococo, Monsieur the prodigal
calls me. Yes, I am old, and broken, and rococo.
I know nothing, save to preserve the traditions of
the grand style we used to keep at Vieux Sablons,
and to love, and serve Madame; and, if I survive
her, my only wish is to be buried in the same
cemetery, and the same grave, at right angles, at
her feet. The old nobility used to grant such
privileges to their faithful servitors."

Lily was very sorry to see the old man moved:
for two big tears were coursing down his parchment
cheek. M. Edgar Greyfaunt was, evidently,
no favourite of his. But his devotion to the
lightest behests of his mistress got the better of
his own personal feelings, and he resigned
himself to the task of killing the fatted calf in
anticipation of the arrival of the prodigal grand-
nephew.

It was a very busy day. The invalid was
agitated, as she always was when Edgar was
expected. She was tetchy, almost cross, and
Lily had to follow out the recipe of smiling upon
her, and kissing her a great many times before
sunset. The marketing done that morning, was
prodigious. Babette missed her out-door orisons.
The famous turkey stuffed with chesnuts was
prepared as a pièce de résistance. The dessert
was on a sumptuous scale. Madame Prudence,
by special permission of the Abbé Chatain, came
to help; and, with the assistance of sundry little
copper stewpans, and a red brick stove fed with
charcoal, concocted entrées of so overpowering
and titillating an odour, that the subtlety of the
aroma penetrated even to the boudoir of
Madame de Kergolay, who, smilingly, speculated
as to whether it was the compote of pigeons,
or the salmi of partridges—of both of which
Edgar was very fond—that Madame Prudence
was cooking.

As for Vieux Sablons, he rubbed and polished
the plate until it seemed in danger of disappearing
utterly under the influence of excessive
attrition. Lily was told that she was not to do
anything, and was even scolded by Madame de
Kergolay for offering to arrange the dessert; but
she stole away in the course of the afternoon to
deck the dining-room table with flowers, and
display the napkins in symmetrical shapes, and
fit little frills of cut paper to the candles.

Vieux Sablons whispered to her about five
o'clock that there would be champagne at dinner,
and also Chambertin.

"It is the grand vin, the famous vintage of
1827," he added. "Madame has only five bottles
of it left. Only imagine! What extravagance!
But she would dissolve diamonds in his
Chambertin, if it were possible, and she had them."

M. Edgar Greyfaunt came to dinner, but he
came late. It was twenty minutes past six
before he condescended to ascend the staircase
and pull the horse-hoof attached to the silken
cord. But had he come at twenty minutes past
midnight he would have been welcome. It was
not the slightest misfortune of Madame la
Baronne de Kergolay that she literally idolised her
graceless grand-nephew.

He was received in all ceremonious form, and
with two lighted candles, by Vieux Sablons,
triply powdered for the occasion.

"How are you, my ancient?" Lily heard him
cry out in a loud ringing voice, in the vestibule.
"The same inimitable make-up, Vieux habits
vieux galons! What a prodigious old mannequin
it is. At the Italiens, mon cher, thou wouldst
be invaluable as lacquey to Doctor Dulcamara."

He was speaking in French, confidently and
fluently, but with a broad Saxon accent. He
thee'd and thou'd Vieux Sablons, not affably, but
superciliously, and whenever he called him "tu,"
or "toi," the old domestic, who was only
accustomed to endure that familiarity from the lips of
his mistress, bowed humbly, but visibly shuddered:

Monsieur Edgar Greyfaunt was ushered into
the presence of his grand-aunt. He sank on one
knee with a becoming grace enough, and pressed
her hand to his lips. It was the homage of
aristocrat to aristocrat. But when he rose, he
tossed his head aloft and threw an insolent look
around, as if to compensate for the act of
humility he had just performed.

The compensation was almost gratuitous.
There was no one in the room at whom to toss
his head or look insolent, but a poor little English
girl.

When his grand-aunt had folded him to her
breast at least twenty times; when she had kissed
his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes, his lips, over
and over again; when she had srnoothed his hair,
and pressed his hands between her own white
palms; when she had bidden him to stand away
from her a little, that she might better regard him;
when she had recalled him to fondle and caress
him; when she had called him her darling Edgar,
her hope, her pride, her sole comfort and stay in
old age—she bethought herself that they, too,
were not Quite Alone, and that there stood one
present who was. She held out her kind hand
to Lily, and pulling the trembling, blushing girl
forward, proceeded to present her to M. Edgar.

"This is Miss Lily Floris," she said, in English,
"a little English friend of mine. She is very
good, and quiet, and useful, and I love her very
dearly. You must be very kind to her, Edgar,
and not at all sarcastic, for she is very young and
timid."

Edgar made Lily a bow which was accompanied
by a nod, and supplemented by a sneer.
It seemed to say, "You are infinitely beneath
me, my young friend, but since my aunt desires
it, I will condescend to be civil to you." The
girl shrunk, but, alas not angrily, from his bold
gaze. In the remotest corner of her heart the
trembling little fingers of her soul were already
beginning to set up an idol. As yet, what had