cast surreptitious glances at Eunice, and formed a new estimate of her
attractions to take the place of the old. He understood little about
dress, but he instinctively felt that the white frock was remarkably
simple for the only child of such distinguished parents, and the
simplicity was in accord with the pale, well-cut face whose chief
characteristics were modesty and sweetness. A little white-gloved hand
lay on her lap, and, as Arthur looked at it, a swift remembrance arose
of the afternoon a few weeks back when he had seen that hand stretched
out to comfort a companion in distress. His lip twitched beneath his
moustache and his smile faded.

"Ah, well," he said to himself sadly, "we cannot all be alike; but it
does one good to see her--dear, little, gentle thing! She'll make some
one very happy some day, and he will think her beautiful, for he will
see his home in her eyes."

He went off into a day-dream of his own, a troubled day-dream, poor
fellow, as his day-dreams were apt to be at this time of his life; but
his companions did not notice his adsorption, for one was listening
rapturously, while the other entertained her with imaginary
conversations supposed to take place between different members of the
crowd by which they were surrounded. That she could hear no word of
what was being said, was but an added stimulus to Miss Peggy's inventive
genius, and so aptly did her dialogues follow the expressions and
gestures of the strangers that Eunice shook from head to foot in
irrepressible enjoyment.

"Goodness, Clementina, here's that impossible Mrs Jones! I thought we
had avoided her so successfully. _Must_ speak now, I suppose. There's
no way of dodging her. `_Dear_ Mrs Jones, how _do_ you do? Such
_ages_ since we met. Is this your daughter? Grown out of knowledge!
It seems but the othah day she was a little girl in short frocks. Quite
impossible, don't you know, to associate _you_ with a grown-up daughter!
Sorry to hurry on, but really--so _many_ friends!' Oh, there's Lord
Algernon Fitznobody coming down that path! Don't let him pass! Waggle
your parasol, Clementina! Cough! Sneeze! Do something to make him see
us! `Don't you remember me, Lord Algernon? How quite too naughty of
you! Mrs Ponsonby de Tomkins, whose purse you picked up in the railway
station in Lausanne. I have heard so much of you since then, for my
sister's aunt's cousin's husband is quite an intimate friend of dear
Lady Fit