was nicely dressed, with an exquisite little
bonnet, which had been bought as they came through Paris; and Lady
Rowley, with natural pride, felt that if he was ever in love with her
child, that love must come back upon him now. American girls, she had
been told, were hard, and dry, and sharp, and angular. She had seen
some at the Mandarins, with whom she thought it must be impossible
that any Englishman should be in love. There never, surely, had
been an American girl like her Nora. "Are you fond of pictures, Mr.
Glascock?" she asked. Mr. Glascock was not very fond of pictures,
and thought that he was rather tired of them. What was he fond of?
Of sitting at home and doing nothing. That was his reply, at least;
and a very unsatisfactory reply it was, as Lady Rowley could hardly
propose that they should come and sit and do nothing with him. Could
he have been lured into churches or galleries, Nora might have been
once more thrown into his company. Then Lady Rowley took courage,
and asked him whether he knew the Spaldings. They were going to Mrs.
Spalding's that very evening,--she and her daughters. Mr. Glascock
replied that he did know the Spaldings, and that he also should be at
their house. Lady Rowley thought that she discovered something like a
blush about his cheekbones and brow, as he made his answer. Then he
left them, giving his hand to Nora as he went;--but there was nothing
in his manner to justify the slightest hope.

"I don't think he is nice at all," said Lucy.

"Don't be so foolish, Lucy," said Lady Rowley angrily.

"I think he is very nice," said Nora. "He was only talking nonsense
when he said that he liked to sit still and do nothing. He is not at
all an idle man;--at least I am told so."

"But he is as old as Methuselah," said Lucy.

"He is between thirty and forty," said Lady Rowley. "Of course we
know that from the peerage." Lady Rowley, however, was wrong. Had she
consulted the peerage, she would have seen that Mr. Glascock was over
forty.

Nora, as soon as she was alone and could think about it all, felt
quite sure that Mr. Glascock would never make her another offer. This
ought not to have caused her any sorrow, as she was very well aware
that she would not accept him, should he do so. Yet, perhaps, there
was a moment of some feeling akin to disappointment. Of course she
would not have accepted him. How could she? Her faith was so plighted
to Hugh Stanbury that she would be a by-word among wo