ing had cost her a sigh, nothing had been denied her. But
now all was going wrong. Olive was crying and losing her good looks. Mr.
Barton had received a threatening letter, and, in consequence, had for a
week past been unable to tune his guitar; poor Lord Dungory was being
bored to death by policemen and proselytizing daughters. Everything was
going wrong. This phrase recurred in Mrs. Barton's thoughts as she
reviewed the situation, her head leaned in the pose of the most
plaintive of the pastels that Lord Dungory had commissioned his
favourite artist to execute in imitation of the Lady Hamilton portraits.
And now, his finger on his lip, like harlequin glancing after columbine,
the old gentleman, who had entered on tiptoe, exclaimed:

'"_Avez vous vu, dans Barcelone
Une Andalouse au sein bruni?
Pale comme un beau soir d' Automne;
C'est ma maitresse, ma lionne!
La Marquesa d' Amalequi_."'

Instantly the silver laugh was set a-tinkling, and, with delightful
gestures, Milord was led captive to the sofa.

'_C'est l'aurore qui vient pour dissiper les brumes du matin_,' Mrs.
Barton declared as she settled her skirts over her ankles.

'"_Qu'elle est superbe en son desordre
Quand elle tombe. . . ."'

'Hush, hush!' exclaimed Mrs. Barton, bursting with laughter; and,
placing her hand (which was instantly fervently kissed) upon Milord's
mouth, she said: 'I will hear no more of that wicked poetry.'

'What! hear no more of the divine Alfred de Musset?' Milord answered, as
if a little discouraged.

'Hush, hush!'

Alice entered, having come from her room to fetch a book, but seeing the
couple on the sofa she tried to retreat, adding to her embarrassment and
to theirs by some ill-expressed excuses.

'Don't run away like that,' said Mrs. Barton; 'don't behave like a
charity-school girl. Come in. I think you know Lord Dungory.'

'Oh! this is the studious one,' said Milord, as he took Alice
affectionately with both hands, and drew her towards him. 'Now look at
this fair brow; I am sure there is poetry here. I was just speaking to
your mother about Alfred de Musset. He is not quite proper, it is true,
for you girls; but oh, what passion! He is the poet of passion. I
suppose you love Byron?'

'Yes; but not so much as Shelley and Keats,' said Alice
enthusiastically, forgetting for the moment her aversion to the speaker
in the allusion to her favourite pursuit.