er head
was turned away, and she was following the host, scarcely exerting
herself to gaze round, when she came close to the open door, where
Louis moved slightly forwards. There was a little ecstatic shriek, and
both her hands were clasped in his, while her face was glowing with
animation and delight.

'I don't know how to believe it!' she said; 'can you be here?'

'We are curing my father. Had you not heard of his illness?'

'I hear nothing,' said Clara, sadly, as she held out her hand to Lord
Ormersfield, who had also come to meet her; and her uncle, who followed
close behind, was full of cordial rejoicings on the encounter.

There was Jane Beckett also, whom Louis next intercepted on her way to
the bedrooms, laden with bags, and smiling most joyously to see him.
'To be sure, my young Lord! And your papa here too, my Lord! Well!
who'll be coming abroad next, I wonder?'

'I wonder at nothing since I have met you here, Jane.'

'And I am right glad of it, my Lord. You'll cheer up poor Miss Clara a
bit, I hope--for--Bless me! wont those Frenchmen never learn to carry
that box right side up?'

And off rushed Jane to a never-ending war of many tongues in defence of
Clara's finery; while Louis, following into the sitting-room, found Mr.
Dynevor inviting his father to the private dinner which he had ordered
for greater dignity.

The proposal was accepted for the sake of spending the evening
together, but little was thus gained; for, excepting for that one
little scream, Louis would hardly have felt himself in the company of
his Giraffe. She had become a very fine-looking person, not quite
handsome, but not many degrees from it, and set off by profuse hair,
and every advantage of figure and dress; while her manner was
self-possessed and formal, indifferent towards ordinary people, but
warm and coaxing towards her uncle. Blunt--almost morose to others--he
was fondling and affectionate towards her; continually looking at the
others as if to claim admiration of her, appealing to her every moment,
and even when talking himself, his keen eye still seeming to watch
every word or gesture.

The talk was all Switzerland and Italy--routes and pictures, mountains
and cathedrals--all by rote, and with no spirit nor heart in the
discussion--not a single word coming near home, nothing to show that
Dynevor Terrace had any existence. Louis bade Clara good-night,
mortified at the absence of all token of feeling for her broth