"Stupid, perhaps, but willing," said she.
"But you don't look ill," she added. "I don't
think you were very bad; or have they cured
you?"

"At this moment," he said, "I am literally
in agony. If I was in an open field, with no
one near, I should like to give a good shriek."

"But that would do you no good," said Lucy,
gravely. "It would be better, would it not, to
have gone to bed, or have sent for Doctor Macan?"

"All the Doctor Macans in the world could do
me little good. If he can cure India and Jamaica,
and the remains of swamp fever fluttering about
one's head like bats at night! But I am past
the time when I should want to be interesting.
Seriously, I am glad to be where I am, to
know there is a friendly face in the window over
the way. I know nothing about friendly faces,
nor never shall. Just come to one side, Miss
Lucy—that is your charming name—to this
wall. Every one seems to be staring so, and
listening, I believe. That's better. No, I know
nothing about friendly faces."

"But," said Lucy, warmly, "this is all very
wrong, and all your own fault, if you won't be
angry with me for telling you so. Papa says we
can do all that for ourselves. He says," she
added, smiling, "we have only to sow friends,
and they will come up like a turnip crop about
you."

"I tried all that over and over again. I
might sow broadcast, but nothing came up for
me. I gave the world a good and a fair chance.
It never gave me one; but I don't complain."

"Friends are made so easily," said Lucy.
"Oh, you don't know how easily. Some have
been made in a minute—at first sight—as—
as——" She stopped, tried to look grave, then
smiled.

"—As our friendship, I hope, will be," he
said, gravely; "unhappily, I must come this
road very often, and I shall keep on my pretty
little rooms always."

"It was not that," said Lucy, impetuously.
"Only we should be so sorry, and papa likes
you."

"Does he?" said the other, smiling.

"But," she went on, "why should you be on
this road always, like the Jew? No one is
obliged to travel backwards and forwards
between Paris and Dieppe." He bowed.

"That is my destiny, all the same. I am
sorry I cannot tell you the story. If you
knew it, you would say I was right in keeping
it locked up in my own dark jail. I have no
pleasure in making others sympathise, and it
will all end one day. Come, what are they
about now—cards?"

Little tables, baize covered, were being
drawn out, and candles arranged.

"Cards!" Mr. Ernest Beaufort was heard
to say to the lady he had never deserted
during the whole evening, "Good Heavens!
are we in a country town?"

Mr. Guernsey was more tolerant. It was he,
indeed, that had proposed a snug game.

"Whist!" said Mr. Beaufort; "they should
send a bellman round, and collect all the old
maids of the town!"

CHAPTER XIII. LUCY'S NEW FRIEND.

THE hostess and her daughters did not
relish this serious interruption to their
little festivity. It brought silence; but
as it was impetuously supported by Mr.
Blacker in hoarse stage-whispers—he himself
dragging out tables, offering to send home for
cards—there was no opposing it. Mr. Beaufort
—who had taken very kindly to the clergyman,
and said, loud enough to be overheard, that he
was charmed with his easy manners, and that
any one could tell he had been in the best set—
declared that he must have Mr. Wilkinson in
his game.

Lucy had been looking on quite downcast
at the turn things had taken.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she said. "We are
going to be moped, now. The party is over,
and you may wish us all good night, Colonel
Vivian. Oh, if they had only made a round
game! A round game is heaven!"

"And why not a round game?" he said.
He never was tired of watching the natural
play of expression in her face. "It is not so
difficult to get up a round game as to get to
heaven."

To her surprise, he went forward, and said,
loud enough to be heard by the room (the
distinguished, the really distinguished stranger
was speaking):

"This will be all very dull for the young
ladies; they will not be let to talk or gossip.
Some one has proposed a round game; it will
be merrier, and take every one in, and far
better."

A handsome stranger, looking round for the
support of the ladies, was not likely to be left
alone.

"Oh yes!" cried Lucy, "a round game!"

"Now listen to my Lulu!" said Mr. Dacres,
to whom the proposal was a welcome relief,
for he was already thinking of "taxing my
friend Vivian's generous heart."

The adhesion to the proposal was unanimous.
Mr. Wilkinson, a timid man, nervous
at his responsibilities—he was to have played
with Mr. Ernest as partner, and Mr. Guernsey
Beaufort against him—the thing was put aside
at once. Blacker was as impetuous against as
he was for it.

"Dear, good lady, can't you see they don't
want it?" he whispered.

The Beauforts, looking darkly at the author
of their defeat, had to give up their pleasant
evening's amusement.

The round game then set in. It was the one
with the ungracious name—the old rude libel
on that gentle sisterhood who prefer to be
single. It was then new, and was played
uproariously. Mr. Ernest alone declined
to join, and sat apart with the lady he
distinguished. His remarks, during breaks of
silence, were borne to the players.