of a lot of visitors--Herr Hauptmann
This, Herr Lieutenant That, Herr Maler The Other, Herr Concertmeister
So-and-So--for von Francius was not the only musician who followed in
her train. But there I am wrong. He did not follow in her train; he
might stand aside and watch the others who did; but following was not in
his line.

There were ladies there too--gay young women, who rallied round Lady Le
Marchant as around a master spirit in the art of _Zeitvertreib_.

This levee lasted till the bell rang for lunch, when we went into the
dining-room, and found Sir Peter and his secretary, young Arkwright,
already seated. He--Arkwright--was a good-natured, tender-hearted lad,
devoted to Adelaide. I do not think he was very happy or very well
satisfied with his place, but from his salary he half supported a mother
and sister, and so was fain to "grin and bear it."

Sir Peter was always exceedingly affectionate to me. I hated to be in
the same room with him, and while I detested him, was also conscious of
an unheroic fear of him. For Adelaide's sake I was as attentive to him
as I could make myself, in order to free her a little from his
surveillance, for poor Adelaide Wedderburn, with her few pounds of
annual pocket-money, and her proud, restless, ambitious spirit, had been
a free, contented woman in comparison with Lady Le Marchant.

On the day in question he was particularly amiable, called me "my dear"
every time he spoke to me, and complimented me upon my good looks,
telling me I was growing monstrous handsome--ay, devilish handsome, by
Gad! far outstripping my lady, who had gone off dreadfully in her good
looks, hadn't she, Arkwright?

Poor Arkwright, tingling with a scorching blush, and ready to sink
through the floor with confusion, stammered out that he had never
thought of venturing to remark upon my Lady Le Marchant's looks.

"What a lie, Arkwright! You know you watch her as if she was the apple
of your eye," chuckled Sir Peter, smiling round upon the company with
his cold, glittering eyes. "What are you blushing so for, my pretty
May? Isn't there a song something about my pretty May, my dearest May,
eh?"

"My pretty Jane, I suppose you mean," said I, nobly taking his attention
upon myself, while Adelaide sat motionless and white as marble, and
Arkwright cooled down somewhat from his state of shame and anguish at
being called upon to decide which of us eclipsed the other in good
looks.

"Pretty Jane! Whoever h