eautiful gowns of
gold-brown plush.

With a cutting stare and a few cold conventional words, they welcomed
Olive and Alice home to the country again. Lord Dungory whispered
something to Mrs. Barton. Olive passed across the room; the black coats
gave way, and, as a white rose in a blood-coloured glass, her shoulders
rose out of the red tulle. Captain Hibbert twisted his brown-gold
moustache, and, with the critical gaze of the connoisseur, examined the
undulating lines of the arms, the delicate waist, and the sloping hips:
her skirts seemed to fall before his looks.

Immediately after, the roaring of a gong was heard, and the form of the
stately butler was seen approaching. Lord Dungory and Lady Jane
exchanged looks. The former offered his arm to Mrs. Gould; the latter,
her finger on her lips, in a movement expressive of profound meditation,
said:

'Mr. Ryan, will you take down Mrs. Barton; Mr. Scully, will you take
Miss Olive Barton; Mr. Adair, will you take Miss Gould; Mr. Lynch, will
you take Miss Alice Barton; Mr. Burke, will you take my sister?' Then,
smiling at the thought that she had checkmated her father, who had
ordered that Olive Barton should go down with Captain Hibbert, she took
Captain Hibbert's arm, and followed the dinner-party. About the marble
statues and stuffed birds on the staircase flowed a murmur of
amiability, and, during a pause, skirts were settled amid the chairs,
which the powdered footmen drew back ceremoniously to make way for the
guests to pass.

A copy of Murillo's _Madonna presenting the Divine Child to St. Joseph_
hung over the fireplace; between the windows another Madonna stood on a
half-moon, and when Lord Dungory said, 'For what we are going to
receive, the Lord make us truly thankful,' these pictures helped the
company to realize a suitable, although momentary emotion.

Turtle soup was handed round. The soft steaming fragrance mixed with the
fresh perfume of the roses that bloomed in a silver vase beneath the
light of the red-shaded wax candles. A tree covered with azaleas spread
notes of delicate colour over the gold screen that hid the door by which
the servants came and went.

'Oh, Lady Sarah,' exclaimed Mrs. Gould, 'I do not know how you have such
beautiful flowers--and in this wretched climate!'

'Yes, it is very trying; but then we have a great deal of glass.'

'Which do you prefer, roses or azaleas?' asked Mrs. Barton.

'_Les roses sont les fleurs en corsage, mais