his little speech pleases her, but she does not accept
the compliment implied to herself.

"You are very kind, Lord Winsleigh"--she answers; "I am glad indeed that
you like Philip. I do think with you that he deserves every one's good
wishes. It is my great desire to make him always happy."

A brief shadow crosses Lord Winsleigh's thoughtful brow, and he studies
her sweet eyes attentively. Is she sincere? Does she mean what she says?
Or is she, like others of her sex, merely playing a graceful part? A
slight sigh escapes him,--absolute truth, innocent love, and stainless
purity are written in such fair, clear lines on that perfect countenance
that the mere idea of questioning her sincerity seems a sacrilege.

"Your desire is gratified, I am sure," he returns, and his voice is
somewhat sad. "I never saw him looking so well. He seems in excellent
spirits."

"Oh, for that!" and she laughs. "He is a very light-hearted boy! But
once he would tell me very dreadful things about the world--how it was
not at all worth living in--but I do think he must have been lonely. For
he is very pleased with everything now, and finds no fault at all!"

"I can quite understand that!" and Lord Winsleigh smiles, though that
shadow of pain still rests on his brow.

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and the Van Clupps are listening to the conversation
with straining ears. What strange person is this? She does not talk bad
grammar, though her manner of expressing herself is somewhat quaint and
foreign. But she is babyish--perfectly babyish! The idea of any
well-bred woman condescending to sing the praises of her own husband in
public! Absurd! "Deserves every-one's good wishes!"--pooh! her "great
desire is to make him always happy!"--what utter rubbish!--and he is a
"light-hearted boy!" Good gracious!--what next? Marcia Van Clupp is
strongly inclined to giggle, and Mrs. Van Clupp is indignantly conscious
that the Errington diamonds far surpass her own, both for size and
lustre.

At that moment Sir Philip approaches his wife, with George Lorimer and
Beau Lovelace. Thelma's smile at Lorimer is the greeting of an old
friend--a sun-bright glance that makes his heart beat a little quicker
than usual. He watches her as she turns to be introduced to
Lovelace,--while Miss Van Clupp, thinking of the relentless gift of
satire with which that brilliant writer is endowed, looks out for "some
fun"--for, as she confides in a low tone to Mrs. Marvelle--"she'll never
kn