forgotten," returns Branscombe, even more coldly. His
second answer hardly tallies with his first; but of this he is quite
oblivious.

Lord Alfred raises his brows. "She has a magnificent voice, and is
very beautiful," he says, evenly. "Yet--do you know? she reminds me
somewhat of Harriet."

Harriet is a third and a favorite sister of Lord Alfred's,--a very
estimable young woman, much given to the reformation of drunkards,
who, though rather deficient in nose, makes up for it in prodigality
of mouth.

"I can't say I see the likeness," says Dorian, with as little disgust
as he can manage at so short a notice.

"My dear fellow," expostulates Lord Alfred, shifting his glass from
one eye to the other and looking palpably amused, "there is no reason
in the world why you should be grumpy because you are in love with the
girl. _I_ don't want to interfere with you."

"In love!" says Branscombe. "Nonsense! I never spoke a word to her in
my life."

"Well, it is uncommon like it," says Lord Alfred.

"Is it? Well, I can't help that, you know. Nevertheless, I am not in
love with any one."

"Then you ought to take that look off your face," persists his
lordship, calmly.

"I'll take off anything you like," replies Dorian? somewhat nettled.

At this, Lord Alfred laughs beneath his breath, and tells him he will
not keep him to this rash promise, as probably the Pullingham folk,
being pre-Adamites, might object to the literal fulfilment of it.

"But she is a very lovely girl, and I don't wonder at your
infatuation," he says, mildly.

"Foregone conclusions seem to be in your line," returns Dorian, with a
shrug. "It seems a useless thing to tell you again I have _not_ lost
my heart to Miss Broughton."

"Oh, so you have remembered her name!" says his lordship, dryly.

Meantime, the concert has reasserted itself, and things once more are
going on smoothly. The vicar, all smiles and sunshine, is going about
accepting congratulations on all sides.

"Such a _charming_ evening," says Mrs. Grey; "and _such_ music!
Really, London could not surpass it. And what a delicious face that
girl has got--like Spring, or May, or--er----Morning, or that.
I quite envy her to you. Now all _my_ governesses are so
unpleasant,--freckled, you know, or with a squint, or a crooked nose,
or that. Some people have _all_ the luck in this world," winds up Mrs.
Grey, with a gentle sigh, who has ten thousand a year and no earthly
care, and who always