le"--to an excess that was
ludicrous,--cramming his house with expensive furniture like an
upholsterer's show-room,--drinking his tea out of pure Sevres, with a
lofty ignorance of its beauty and value,--dressing his wife and daughter
like shilling fashion-plates, and having his portrait taken in precisely
the same attitude as that assumed by the Duke of Wrigglesbury when his
Grace sat to the same photographer! It was delicious to hear him
bragging of his pilgrim ancestor,--while in the same breath he would
blandly sneer at certain "poor gentry" who could trace back their
lineage to Coeur de Lion! But because the Erringtons were rich as well
as titled persons, Van Clupp and his belongings bent the servile knee
before them, flattering Thelma with that ill-judged eagerness and
zealous persistency which distinguish inborn vulgarity, and which, far
from pleasing her, annoyed and embarrassed her because she could not
respond sincerely to such attentions.

There were many others too, not dollar-crusted Americans, whose
excessive adulation and ceaseless compliment vexed the sincere, frank
spirit of the girl,--a spirit fresh and pure as the wind blowing over
her own Norse mountains. One of these was Sir Francis Lennox, that
fashionable young man of leisure,--and she had for him an instinctive,
though quite unreasonable aversion. He was courtesy itself--he spared no
pains to please her. Yet she felt as if his basilisk brown eyes were
always upon her,--he seemed to be ever at hand, ready to watch over her
in trifles, such as the passing of a cup of tea, the offering of her
wrap,--the finding of a chair,--the holding of a fan,-he was always on
the alert, like a remarkably well-trained upper servant. She could not,
without rudeness, reject such unobtrusive, humble services,--and
yet--they rendered her uncomfortable, though she did not quite know why.
She ventured to mention her feeling concerning him to her friend Lady
Winsleigh, who heard her timid remarks with a look on her face that was
not quite pleasant.

"Poor Sir Francis!" her ladyship said with a slight, mocking laugh.
"He's never happy unless he plays puppy-dog! Don't mind him, Thelma! He
won't bite, I assure you,--he means no harm. It's only his little way of
making himself agreeable!"

George Lorimer, during this particular "London season," fled the field
of action, and went to Paris to stay with Pierre Duprez. He felt that it
was dangerous to confront the fair enemy t