her attention was often caught by his
profile and finely-balanced head, by the hand lying on his knee, or the
little gestures, full of life and freedom, with which he met some raid
of Lady Charlotte's on his opinions, or opened a corresponding one on
hers. There was certainly power in the man, a bright human sort of
power, which inevitably attracted her. And that he was good too she had
special grounds for knowing.

But what an aristocrat he was after all! What an over-prosperous
exclusive set he belonged to! She lashed herself into anger as the other
two chatted and sparred, with all these names of wealthy cousins and
relations, with their parks and their pedigrees and their pictures! The
aunt and nephew were debating how they could best bleed the family, in
its various branches, of the art treasures belonging to it for the
benefit of the East-Enders; therefore the names were inevitable. But
Rose curled her delicate lip over them. And was it the best breeding,
she wondered, to leave a third person so ostentatiously outside the
conversation?

'Miss Leyburn, why are you coughing?' said Lady Charlotte suddenly.

'There is a great draught,' said Rose, shivering a little.

'So there is!' cried Lady Charlotte. 'Why, we have got both the windows
open. Hugh, draw up Miss Leyburn's.'

He moved over to her and drew it up.

'I thought you liked a tornado,' he said to her, smiling. 'Will you have
a shawl?--there is one behind me.'

'No, thank you,' she replied rather stiffly, and he was
silent--retaining his place opposite to her, however.

'Have we reached Mr. Elsmere's part of the world yet?' asked Lady
Charlotte, looking out.

'Yes, we are not far off--the river is to our right. We shall pass St.
Wilfrid's soon.'

The coachman turned into a street where an open-air market was going
on. The roadway and pavements were swarming; the carriage could barely
pick its way through the masses of human beings. Flaming gas-jets threw
it all into strong satanic light and shade. At the corner of a dingy
alley Rose could see a fight going on; the begrimed ragged children,
regardless of the April rain, swooped backwards and forwards under the
very hoofs of the horses, or flattened their noses against the windows
whenever the horses were forced into a walk.

The young girl-figure in gray, with the gray feathered hat, seemed
specially to excite their notice. The glare of the street brought out
the lines of the face, the gold of the