osculatory movement. "How odiously cool and
fresh you do look! while I--what a journey it has been! and how out of
the way! I really don't believe it was nearly so far the last time.
Have the roads lengthened, or have they pushed the house farther on? I
never felt so done up in my life."

"You do look tired, dear. Better go to your room at once, and let me
send you up some tea."

"Not tea," says the sweet voice; "anything but _that_. I am quite
too far gone for _tea_. Say sherry, Marcia, or--no,--Moselle. I
think it is Moselle that does me good when I am fatigued to death."

"You shall have it directly. Matthews, show Lady Stafford her room."

"One moment, Marcia. Many people come yet? Tedcastle?"

"Yes, and Captain Mottie, with his devoted attendant, and the Darleys."

"Maudie? Is she as fascinating as ever? I do hope, Marcia, you have got
her young man for her this time, as she was simply unbearable last
year."

"I have not," laughing: "it is a dead secret, but the fact is, he
_wouldn't come_."

"I like that young man; though I consider he has sold us shamefully.
Any one else?"

"My cousin, Eleanor Massereene."

"_The_ cousin! I am so glad. Anything new is such a relief. And I
have heard she is beautiful: is she?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," quotes Marcia, in a low tone,
and with a motion of her hand toward the open door inside which sits
Molly, that sends Lady Stafford up-stairs without further parley.

"Is it Lady Stafford?" asks Molly, as Marcia re-enters the room.

"Yes."

"She seems very tired."

"I don't know, really. She thinks she is,--which amounts to the same
thing. You will see her in half an hour or so as fresh as though
fatigue were a thing unknown."

"How does she do it?" asks Molly, curiously, who has imagined Lady
Stafford by her tone to be in the last stage of exhaustion.

"How can I say? I suppose her maid knows."

"Why? Does she--paint?" asks Molly, with hesitation, who has been
taught to believe that all London women are a mixture of false hair,
rouge, pearl powder, and belladonna.

"Paint!" with a polite disgust, "I should hope not. If you are a judge
in that matter you will be able to see for yourself. I know nothing of
such things, but I don't think respectable women paint."

"But," says Molly, who feels a sudden anger at her tone, and as sudden
a desire to punish her for her insolence, opening her blue eyes
innocently wide, "_you_ are respectable, Marcia?