at Olive was a little too
_naive_ in her manner. Captain Hibbert's society would brush that off,
and Olive would go up to the Castle with the reputation of having made a
conquest.

Such were Mrs. Barton's thoughts as she sat, her hands laid like china
ornaments on her lap; her feet were tucked under the black-pleated
skirt, and she sometimes raised her Greuze-like eyes and looked at her
daughter.

The girls were grouped around a small table, on which stood a
feather-shaded lamp. In clear voices and clear laughs they were talking
of each other's dresses. May had just stood up to show off her skirt.
She was a superb specimen of a fat girl, and in a glow of orange ribbons
and red hair she commanded admiration.

'And to think she is going to waste her time with that dissipated young
man, Mr. Scully!' thought Mrs. Barton. Then Olive stood up. She was all
rose, and when, laughing, with a delicious movement of the arms, she
hitched back her bustle, she lost her original air, and looked as might
have done the Fornarina when not sitting in immortality. It was the
battle of blonde tints: Olive with primroses and corn, May with a
cadmium yellow and red gold.

'And now, Alice, get up and let's see you!' she cried, catching hold of
her sister's arm.

Still resisting, Alice rose to her feet, and May, who was full of good
nature, made some judicious observations.

'And how different we all look from what we did at the convent! Do you
remember our white frocks?'

Alice's face lit up with a sudden remembrance, and she said:

'But why, Lady Sarah, haven't we seen Cecilia? I've been thinking of her
during dinner. I hope she is not ill?'

'Oh, dear me, no! But poor Cecilia does not care to come down when there
is company.'

'But can I not see her?'

'Oh, certainly! You will find her in her room. But you do not know the
way; I will ring for my maid, she will show you.'

At this moment men's voices were heard on the staircase. The ladies all
looked up, the light defining the corner of a forehead, the outline of a
nose and chin, bathing a neck in warm shadow, modelling a shoulder with
grey tints, sending a thousand rays flashing through the diamonds on the
bosom, touching the finger-rings, and lastly dying away amid the folds
of the dresses that trailed on the soft carpet. Mr. Ryan, walking with
his habitual roll and his hands in his pockets, entered. His tie was
under his left ear. Mr. Lynch, haunted by the idea that he had n