stic of what they wish it to be, don their white cottons and
muslins, and put up their parasols against the sun's rays, and, shivering
inwardly, poor things, openly brave the terrors of rheumatism and
lumbago, and make up their minds that it _shall_ be summer.

The sunblinds are drawn all along the front windows of a house in Park
Lane, and though the gay geraniums and calceolarias in the flower-boxes,
which were planted only yesterday, look already nipped and shrivelled up
with the cold, the house, nevertheless, presents from the exterior a
bright and well-cared-for appearance.

Within the drawing-room are two ladies. One, the mistress of the house,
is seated at the writing-table with her back to the room, scribbling off
invitations for dear life, cards for an afternoon "at-home," at the rate
of six per minute; the other sits idle in a low basket-chair doing
nothing.

There is no sound but the scratching of the quill pen as it flies over
the paper, and the chirping of a bullfinch in a cage in the bow-window.

"What time is it, Vera?"

"A quarter to twelve."

"Almost time to dress; I've only ten more cards to fill up. What are you
going to wear--white?"

Vera shivers. "Look how the dust is flying--it must be dreadfully cold
out--I should like to put on a fur jacket."

"_Do_," says the elder lady, energetically. "It will be original, and
attract attention. Not that you could well be more stared at than you
are."

Vera smiles, and does not answer.

Mrs. Hazeldine goes on with her task.

"There! that's done!" she cries, at last, getting up from the table, and
piling her notes up in a heap on one side of it. "Now, I am at your
orders."

She comes forward into the room--a pretty, dark-eyed, oval-faced woman,
with a figure in which her dressmaker has understood how to supplement
all that nature has but imperfectly carried out. A woman with restless
movements and an ever-ready tongue--a thorough daughter of the London
world she lives in.

Vera leans her head back in her chair, and looks at her. "Cissy," she
says, "I must really go home, I have been with you a month to-day."

"Go home! certainly not, my dear. Don't you know that I have sworn to
find you a husband before the season is out? I must really get you
married, Vera. I have half a mind," she adds, reflectively, as she
smooths down her shining brown hair at the glass, and contemplates, not
ill satisfied, her image there--"I have really half a mind to le