l have merit."

Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire was
unable to exchange ideas with him. The Parisian, having learnt what
this gentleman's claims were, regarded him through his _pince-nez_ with
a subtle smile. But in a few moments he had something more interesting
to observe.

"Mrs. Elgar," cried the voice at the door.

Cecily was met half-way by her aunt, "You are alone?"

"Reuben has a headache. Perhaps he will come to fetch me, but more
likely not."

All the eyes in the room had one direction. Alike those who ingenuously
admired and those who wished to seem indifferent paid the homage of
observation to Mrs. Elgar, as she stood exchanging greetings with the
friends who came forward. Yes, there was something more than attractive
features and a pleasant facility of speech. In Cecily were blended a
fresh loveliness and a grace as of maidenhood with the perfect charm of
wedded youth. The air about her was charged with something finer than
the delicate fragrance which caressed the senses. One had but to hear
her speak, were it only the most ordinary phrase of courtesy, and that
wonderful voice more than justified profound interest. Strangers took
her for a few years older than she was, not judging so much by her face
as the finished ease of her manners; when she conversed, it was hard to
think of her as only one-and-twenty.

"She is a little pale this evening," said Irene to Mrs. Travis.

The other assented; then asked:

"Why don't you paint her portrait?"

"Heaven forbid! I have quite enough discouragement in my attempts at
painting, as it is."

M. Silvenoire was bowing low, as Mrs. Lessingham presented him. To his
delight, he heard his own language fluently, idiomatically spoken; he
remarked, too, that Mrs. Elgar had a distinct pleasure in speaking it.
She seated herself, and flattered him into ecstasies by the respect
with which she received his every word. She had seen it mentioned in
the _Figaro_ that a new play of his was in preparation; when was it
likely to be put on the stage? The theatre in London--of course, he
understood that no one took it _au serieux_?

The Parisian could do nothing but gaze about the room, following her
movements, when their dialogue was at an end. Mon Dieu! And who, then,
was Mr. Elgar? Might not one hope for an invitation to madame's
assemblies? A wonderful people, these English, after all.

Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the