rcle, a circle in which everybody was more or less _chic_, or
_chien_, or _zinc_, and she was tasting all the sweets of success. But
in none of her letters was there any mention of Lord Hartfield. He was
not in the little great world by the blue tideless sea.

There was no talk of Lesbia's return. She was to stay till the carnival;
she was to stay till the week before Easter. Lady Kirkbank insisted upon
it; and both Lesbia and Lady Kirkbank upbraided Lady Maulevrier for her
cruelty in not joining them at Cannes.

So Lady Maulevrier had to resign herself to that solitude which had
become almost the habit of her life, and to the society of Mary and the
Fraeulein. Mary was eager to be of use, to sit with her grandmother, to
read to her, to write for her. The warm young heart was deeply moved by
the spectacle of this stately woman stricken into helplessness, chained
to her couch, immured within four walls. To Mary, who so loved the hills
and the streams, the sun and the wind, this imprisonment seemed
unspeakable woe. In her pity for such a martyrdom she would have done
anything to give pleasure or solace to her grandmother. Unhappily there
was very little Mary could do to increase the invalid's sum of pleasure.
Lady Maulevrier was a woman of strong feeling, not capable of loving
many people. She had concentrated her affection upon Lesbia: and she
could not open her heart to Mary all at once because Lesbia was out of
the way.

'If I had a dog I loved, and he were to die, I would never have another
in his place,' Lady Maulevrier said once; and that speech was the
keynote of her character.

She was very courteous to Mary, and seemed grateful for her attentions;
but she did not cultivate the girl's society. Mary wrote all her letters
in a fine bold hand, and with a rapid pen; but when the letter-writing
was over Lady Maulevrier always dismissed her.

'My dear, you want to be out in the air, riding your pony, or
scampering about with your dogs,' she said, kindly. 'It would be a
cruelty to keep you indoors.'

'No, indeed, dear grandmother, I should like to stay. May I stop and
read to you?'

'No, thank you, Mary. I hate being read to. I like to devour a book.
Reading aloud is such slow work.

'But I am afraid you must sometimes feel lonely,' faltered Mary.

'Lonely,' echoed the dowager, with a sigh. 'I have been lonely for the
last forty years--I have been lonely all my life. Those I loved never
gave me back love for l