d,--one who
ought to be your dearest: I allude to Lady Stafford."

"Lady Stafford!"

"Yes, your wife. You don't seem over and above pleased at my news."

"Is a man always pleased at his wife's unexpected appearance?" asks Sir
Penthony, recovering himself with a rather forced laugh. "I had no idea
she was here. I---- Is she a friend of yours?"

"The dearest friend I have. I know no one," declares her ladyship,
fervently, "I love so fondly."

"Happy Lady Stafford! I almost think I would change places with her
this moment. At all events, whatever faults she may possess, she has
rare taste in friends."

"You speak disparagingly. Has she a fault?"

"The greatest a woman can have: she lacks that one quality that would
make her a 'joy forever.'"

"Your severity makes you unkind. And yet, do you know she is greatly
liked. Nay, she has been _loved_. Perhaps when you come to know
her a little better (I do not conceal from you that I have heard
something of your story), you will think more tenderly of her.
Remember, 'beauty is only skin deep.'"

"Yes,"--with a light laugh,--"But 'ugliness goes to the bone.'"

"That is the retort discourteous. I see it is time wasted to plead my
friend's cause. Although, perhaps,"--reproachfully,--"not blessed with
actual beauty, still----"

"No, there's _not_ much beauty about her," says Sir Penthony, with
something akin to a groan. Then, "I beg your pardon," he murmurs; "pray
excuse me. Why should I trouble a stranger with my affairs?" He stands
aside, with a slight bow, to let her pass. "And you won't tell me your
name?" he cannot resist saying before losing sight of her.

"Make haste with your dressing; you shall know then," glancing back at
him, with a bewitching smile.

"Be sure I shall waste no time. If, in my hurry, I appear to less
advantage than usual to-night, you must not be the one to blame me."

"A very fair beginning," says Cecil, as she slips away. "Now I must be
firm. But, oh dear, oh dear! he is much handsomer even than I thought."

CHAPTER XV.

"If I am not worth the wooing,
I surely am not worth the winning."

--_Miles Standish._

The minutes, selfishly thoughtless of all but themselves, fly rapidly.
Cecil makes her way to the drawing-room, where she is followed
presently by Molly, then by Luttrell; but, as these two latter refuse
to converse with each other, conversation is rather one-sided.

Mr. Amherst, contrary to his usua