might as well be at Fellside and you in London, for anything I see of
you,' said Lesbia.

'You are up to your eyes in engagements, and I don't suppose you want to
see any more of me.' Maulevrier answered, bluntly.

'But I'll call to-morrow morning, if I am likely to find you at home.
I've some news for you.'

'Then I'll stay at home on purpose to see you. News is always
delightful. Is it good news, by-the-bye?'

'Very good; at least, I think so.'

'What is it about?'

'Oh! that's a long story, and the curtain is just going up. The news is
about Mary.'

'About Mary!' exclaimed Lesbia, elevating her eyebrows. 'What news can
there possibly be about Mary?'

'Such news as there generally is about every nice jolly girl, at least
once in her life.'

'You don't mean that she is engaged--to a curate?'

'No, not to a curate. There goes the curtain. "I'll see you later," as
the Yankee President used to say when people bothered him, and he didn't
like to say no.'

Engaged: Mary engaged! The idea of such an altogether unexpected event
distracted Lesbia's mind all through the last act of the Demi-monde. She
hardly knew what the actors were talking about. Mary, her younger
sister! Mary, a good looking girl enough, but by no means a beauty, and
with manners utterly unformed. That Mary should be engaged to be
married, while she, Lesbia, was still free, seemed an obvious absurdity.

And yet the fact was, on reflection, easily to be accounted for. These
unattractive girls are generally the first to bind themselves with the
vows of betrothal. Lady Kirkbank had told her of many such cases. The
poor creatures know that their chances will be few, and therefore
gratefully welcome the first wooer.

'But who can the man be?' thought Lesbia. 'Mary has been kept as
secluded as a cloistered nun. There are so few families we have ever
been allowed to mix with. The man must be a curate, who has taken
advantage of grandmother's illness to force his way into the family
circle at Fellside--and who has made love to Mary in some of her lonely
rambles over the hills, I daresay. It is really very wrong to allow a
girl to roam about in that way.'

Sir George and a couple of his horsey friends were waiting for supper
when Lady Kirkbank and her party arrived in Arlington Street. The
dining-room looked a picture of comfort. The oval table, the low lamps,
the clusters of candles under coloured shades, the great Oriental bowl
of wild flowers--e