"We are going back to our school-days
again. We might as well be in the curate's
house on holiday night. We ought to have
blindman's buff next."

Some one was dealing, and there was a
silence; when Mr. Vivian's voice was heard:

"The pleasantest sight I ever saw was a
game of blindman's buff, which we had one
Christmas at Lord Langley's, Governor-General
of India. He played himself, and his wife, the
commander-in-chief, and a young duke who was
travelling. So, if we do clear away the tables
by-and-by, we have some precedent for it."

This was an answer to Mr. Beaufort's remark,
and yet it seemed merely accidental.

The game was done. There was a pleasant
clinking outside. The hospitable lady was busy
moving in and out. Presently entered trays,
jingling musically. The fragrance of the
browned French fowls was borne on the air.
Captain Filby was softened, and abated his
eternal growl, to say that this was the only
sensible thing he had seen since he came into the
place.

Blessings, we may say again, on those honest
purveyoresses whose delight is to set down
something good and appetising, who do not
disdain personal service in the kitchen, and who
enjoy it themselves in seeing you enjoy it.

In a minute they were all sitting round with
alacrity.

"Mr. Vivian! not going away?" the hostess
said, in alarm. "You'll offend me."

"A thousand thanks," he answered, "for the
most cheerful evening I have spent for years."

"What! must you go away?" said Lucy,
her face showing her disappointment—that face
which expressed all she felt without restraint—
"after your engaging to stay?"

"You are afraid about your protégés," he
said, smiling. "They shall not suffer. But I
am like the Jew; I may not tarry long in one
place. It will be the better. But this is not
in my way. Indeed, I have no business to be
here."

"Come here, Miss Lucy; what do you say
to this?—Colonel Vivian leaving us just as
we are only beginning!"

"I will not allow it," said she. "Don't go
away yet, Colonel Vivian. I found you a
lodging to-day—a good Samaritan you called
me—and now you must let me find you food,
meat, and wine."

"I am helpless here," he said, but sat down
next to Lulu.

Then that pleasant little meal commenced.
The browned French fowls vanished utterly,
as though they had taken wings and
flown away. Our colonists had not fared so
substantially for long. (Was this the secret
of the respect "the Widow Dalrymple" enjoyed?)
Captain Filby said it was like old
England again—"the dear old country we all
love so much, but somehow won't live in."
The Beaufort gentlemen were discontented.

"A cabin in England," said Mr. Ernest,
"before a palace in this wretched hole."

Colonel Vivian was looking on him with
hostile disgust.

"The French are a very fair sort of people,
in their way," said Mr. Blacker, patronisingly,
"but, of course, as compared with
the English——"

"I should never think of comparing them,
even," said Mr. Beaufort.

"We ought to revive the old vulgar theory,"
said Vivian, in perfect good humour, "and
lay down, once for all, that one Englishman is
equal to half a dozen Frenchmen."

"So he is," said the other, getting red, "any
day! He'd thrash a dozen of them at a time—
a set of dirty, swindling, soup-eating fellows.
One of our Guardsmen would eat a dozen of
them for breakfast."

Vivian laughed with real heartiness. "You
won't be angry," he said, trying to be grave,
"but really I have read and heard that there were
people who held this view, but I always thought
it was a joke. Now I can say I have really
seen and heard a person say it. I am quite
glad. It is something to have lived for."

This was said with such perfect sincerity
and satisfaction, that the ladies tittered, and
Lucy involuntarily clapped her hands, and cried
out: "Oh! how very good! how funny!"
And such is the force of genuine earnestness
and true seriousness, on the stage or off, that
every one looked eagerly at Mr. Beaufort, as if
he were a real curiosity.

The gentleman coloured.

"I don't see your joke," he said. "I don't
follow it at all."

But every one the next day was telling "a
good thing" that happened last night, and the
fun they had, and how the handsome English
colonel—whom that artful, quiet girl, Lucy
Dacres, had got hold of ("I heard her say, do
you know, she was his good Samaritan")—had
thoroughly shut up that stuck-up young swell,
Beaufort.

Lucy often thought of that night later—
"her first party." It seemed such a pleasant
scene. She was delighted with her new friend.
There was something in his voice—a strange
interest. He was different from the hard,
selfish, pushing crowd about her. His manner
to her was charming. She was a school-girl;
she had not learned the regimental drill
of her senses. And some ladies, with an
amused air, pointed out to each other the open
delight with which she listened and looked at
her sad and handsome Englishman.

A stiff cold face had noted carefully everything
of this behaviour the whole night.
The owner of it grew more stiff, grim, and
unsocial every moment. The "remarking" people
always said she was the greatest oddity in the
place. And on to-night she would neither play
at cards nor eat nor drink; which unsocial vice
offended the good hostess in her nicest point.
She still kept in her corner. Lucy was quite
unconscious of this observation, and came over
now and again to her with that friendly confidential
manner which attracted so many friends