at a rustic table, the blue
river gleaming and glancing in the distance, the good old trees
spreading their broad shadows over the grass, the company crowding and
chattering and laughing--an animated picture of pretty faces, smart
gowns, big parasols, Japanese fans.

Lesbia poured out the tea with the prettiest air of domesticity.

'Can you really pour out tea?' gasped a callow lieutenant, gazing upon
her with goggling, enraptured eyes. 'I did not think you could do
anything so earthly.'

'I can, and drink it too,' answered Lesbia, laughing. 'I adore tea.
Cream and sugar?'

'I--I beg your pardon--how many?' murmured the youth, who had lost
himself in gazing, and no longer understood plain English.

Mr. Smithson frowned at the intruder, and contrived to absorb Lesbia's
attention for the rest of the afternoon. He had a good deal more to say
for himself than her military admirers, and was altogether more amusing.
He had a little cynical air which Lesbia's recent education had taught
her to enjoy. He depreciated all her female friends--abused their gowns
and bonnets, and gave her to understand, between the lines, as it were,
that she was the only woman in London worth thinking about.

She looked at him curiously, wondering how Belle Trinder had been able
to resign herself to the idea of marrying him.

He was not absolutely bad looking--but he was in all things unlike a
girl's ideal lover. He was short and stout, with a pale complexion, and
sunken faded eyes, as of a man who had spent the greater part of his
life by candle light, and had pored much over ledgers and bank books,
share lists and prospectuses. He dressed well, or allowed himself to be
dressed by the most correct of tailors--the Prince's tailor--but he
never attempted to lead the fashion in his garments. He had no
originality. Such sublime flights as that of the man who revived
corduroy, or of that daring genius who resuscitated the half-forgotten
Inverness coat, were unknown to him. He could only follow the lead of
the highest. He had small feet, of which he was intensely proud, podgy
white hands on which he wore the most exquisite rings. He changed his
rings every day, like a Roman Emperor; was reported to have summer and
winter rings--onyx and the coolest looking intaglios set in filagree for
warm weather--fiery rubies and diamonds in massive bands of dull gold
for winter. He was said to devote half-an-hour every morning to the
treatment of his nails,