grave tranquillity of her face and the soberness of her dress.

"I don't know why it is, but you remind me of a nun," Clara said,
glancing at her in some perplexity. "The effect is quite charming, but
it is nun-like too----"

"I am sure I don't know why; I never felt more worldly in my life," said
Lettice, laughing. "Am I not fit for Mrs. Hartley's drawing-room?"

"Fit? You are lovely; but not quite like anybody else. That is the best
of it; Mrs. Hartley will rave of you," said Clara, as they set forth.
And the words jarred a little on Lettice's sensitive mind; she thought
that she should object to be raved about.

They took an omnibus to Kensington High Street, and then they made their
way to Campden Hill, where Mrs. Hartley's house was situated. And as
they went, Clara took the opportunity of explaining Mrs. Hartley's
position and claims to distinction. Mrs. Hartley was a widow, childless,
rich, perfectly independent: she was very critical and very clever (said
Mrs. Graham), but, oh, _so_ kind-hearted! And she was sure that Lettice
would like her.

Lettice meekly hoped that she should, although she had a guilty sense of
wayward dislike to the woman in whose house, it appeared, she was to be
exhibited. For some words of Graham's lingered in her mind. "Mrs.
Hartley? The lion-hunter? Oh! so _you_ are to be on view this afternoon,
I understand." Accordingly, it was with no very pleasant anticipation
that Lettice entered the lion-hunter's house on Campden Hill.

A stout, little grey-haired lady in black, with a very observant eye,
came forward to greet the visitors. "This is Miss Campion, I feel sure,"
she said, putting out a podgy hand, laden with diamond rings. "Dear Mrs.
Graham, how kind of you to bring her. Come and sit by me, Miss Campion,
and tell me all about yourself. I want to know how you first came to
think of literature as a profession?"

This was not the way in which people talked at Angleford. Lettice felt
posed for a moment, and then a sense of humor came happily to her
relief.

"I drifted into it, I am afraid," she answered, composedly.

"Drifted? No, I am sure you would never drift. You don't know how
interested I am, Miss Campion, in the development of the human mind, or
you would not try to evade the question. Now, which interests you most,
poetry or prose?"

"That depends upon my mood; I am not sure that I am permanently
interested in either," Lettice said, quietly.

Her hostess' observant