waistcoat) was very pleasant about "a band-
box," and ceiling pressing on your head.
He was growling to young Chaytor in the
corner: "Why didn't she hire a garsong or
two from the hotel—the beggars would have
been glad of a franc at this time—to roar names
up the stairs? This good woman will be going
round to Sody and the rest of them: 'My dear
Mussier Sody, I am so sorry, but next month
or so I expect a remittance;' and all that. So
it's Sody and the other rascals who really pay
for all this—these wax-lights and all."

There also was M. Pigou, the handsome
pastor—already retired into a corner, as into an
arbour, with the handsome daughter of the
house, his dark eyes "reading hers," as he
thought, with an exquisitely hopeless sense of
being misunderstood and unintelligible to the
whole world. Here was Doctor White, the gay
unmarried doctor; but not Doctor Macan.
We can hear Mrs. Dalyrymple explaining this
with nervous anxiety, as though she were a diplomatist.

"You know, Doctor White is our friend,
and was recommended to us, and is as agreeable
a young man as ever I met. I asked Mr.
Macan, but he wrote me back such a stiff,
angry letter, saying he wouldn't go into the
same room with the other, and that I must
have known that. Really, I am not accustomed
to be lectured in that way about my
little parties. I shall never trouble him again.
But not a word to Mr. White; it would only
spoil his pleasure for to-night."

But the gentleman alluded to was, of course,
in full possession of all the whole transaction,
and was "winning golden opinions" by the
easy and pleasant way he took it—a nice, pleasant,
good-tempered young fellow, and desirous
to succeed. No wonder! for he spoke in the
magnanimous way of Doctor Macan. No man
more admired his abilities than he did. He
thought it a little unfair and ungenerous in one
of Doctor Macan's standing to try and keep
back one in the profession. So far it had
not succeeded. The young ladies said Mr.
White—it was agreed tacitly that he should
not be called "Doctor"—was so good-looking.

This little episode was most valuable, and,
later, furnished the colony with interesting
whispers and speculations for several days.
But in a moment this little scandal was absorbed
in the grander interest of the arrival of the
distinguished guests, Mr. Blacker coming on
before and plunging into the room, looking
eagerly round, and seizing Mrs. Dalrymple by the
wrist, to bring her to meet this grand stranger.
It was a procession; Guernsey Beaufort, a
London club man, superbly gracious, laying himself
out, as it were, you see, to suit himself
to this sort of thing. Indeed, he had a good-
naturedly amused look as he turned his eyes
a little way up to the low ceiling. Mrs. Beaufort,
gentle and even sorrowful, all her finery
hopelessly betraying her inferior origin, and
that she had been married for money. The
younger Beaufort's scornful contempt for the
people and the place—constitutional and
involuntary—his unconcealed weariness, his
openly careless explanation that "Guernsey
insisted on bringing him," and that he was
counting the minutes till he got back to town,
were tokens there were no mistaking; a gulf
was all around him, separating him from the
canaille, and he was on a rock in the middle.

Our Lucy had come early by herself; that is,
attended through the Dieppe streets by the
little maid who waited on her. That was almost
a not unpicturesque and even theatrical sight
—the lights twinkling in the shops over the
wares, that seemed like gold and silver, and
the lamp swinging overhead from lines. At
times, when the night was wild, the sullen drone
of the sea close by came round the corners.
Her father was to drop in later. She was a
little excited; it was her first amusement of
the kind since she had been manumitted. She
looked pretty and attractive. Young Mr. White
grew distrait talking to the Miss Dalrymples, as
he looked over to her. Other eyes, bent on her
from a retired corner, were watching her with
less complacency. For a time, Lucy, pleased
with the lights—and your true entrepreneurs of
these little private shows know that light can
supply furniture, glitter, magnificence, everything,
if it be but turned on in abundance—she
was charmed with the festive dresses and the
"company manners," all new to her. Thus
engrossed, it was some minutes before she saw
Miss West's staid face bent on hers, watching
grimly and fixedly from a corner. Lucy darted
over to her.

"I am so glad we meet here. Isn't it pretty
and charming? And I feel as if I was going
to enjoy myself. Where is Mr. West? He's
coming later?"

"No; he is not coming. He had business
at home."

"Not coming?" cried Lucy; "how strange of
him! He always goes out with you, does he
not?"

"I see you are here by yourself," said the
other, quietly; "but I don't think it odd of
you. My brother has letters to write."

"Nonsense," said Lucy, gaily; "tell him,
from me, I don't believe his excuses. His letters
would keep well enough till morning, if he
would put his thoughts in water, like flowers."

"I should not venture to give him any message
of that sort," said Miss West, with great
coldness, "though I am his sister. I should not
dare to look for any reasons more than such
as he chooses to give me."

Lucy, in a sort of speculative way, her eyes
seeming to work out the conclusion:

"Then I'll tell him, for I am privileged to
say what I please to him. This is some deep
plan or policy. I am sure he is working some
scheme. He is so clever, you know; and when
he does anything out of the usual course, he
has some end in view."

"I shall tell him all these compliments, you
may be sure," said Miss West, looking at
her.