out her of being chilled to the bone. Her fingers, lying idly in her
lap, clutch and unclutch each other aimlessly, as though vainly
searching for the accustomed sock.

Miss Broughton, who is taking no part in the performance,--having
suppressed the fact of her having a very beautiful voice, ever since
her arrival at Pullingham,--is sitting on a side-seat, longing eagerly
for Clarissa's arrival. The children have wandered a little away from
her, and are gazing, as lost in admiration, at the huge
rose-construction on the wall before them.

Presently, the Greys of Greymount come in, with a little shudder of
disgust at finding themselves almost the first; followed closely by
Lady Mary and Lady Patricia Hort, who do not shudder at all, but go
straight up the small passage between the seats, with their patrician
noses high in the air, and smile and nod cheerfully, and not at all
condescendingly, at Mrs. Redmond, who, poor soul, is deeply relieved
at sight of them.

Lady Mary goes on to the platform; Lady Patricia sinks into a front
seat specially provided for her, whilst Lord Alfred, their
brother,--who has been inveigled into coming, sorely against his
will,--having conversed with Lady Patricia for a few minutes, and told
her several lies about the arrangements for the evening,--not
intentionally, but through ignorance, being under the false impression
that a concert in a village is the same as a concert in town,--goes
over to one side of the building, and plants himself listlessly with
his back against a wall, from which position he gazes in a gloomy
fashion at everything in general, but Miss Broughton in particular.

Then comes everybody, and makes a great fuss about its
place,--Clarissa Peyton and her father excepted, who go straight to
where Georgie is sitting, and stay with her all the evening.

Dorian Branscombe, who has come down expressly for the concert, at
great trouble to himself, and simply to oblige the vicar, saunters
leisurely up the room towards the middle of the evening, and looks
round him dubiously, as though uncertain where to put in his time.

Seeing Clarissa, he goes up to her, and, with a faint sigh of relief,
leans over the back of her chair and says, "Good-evening," in a
languid tone.

"Ah! you, Dorian?" says Clarissa, very pleased. "Now, it _is_ good of
you to come."

"I'm always good," says Dorian. "I'm a model boy. It is so strange
that people won't recognize the fact. They sort of give