his right and left hand
hitting out, que c'etoit un plaisir voir. His father sat back in the
carriage, looking with delight and wonder--indeed it was a great sight.
Policeman X separated the warriors. Clive ascended the box again with
a dreadful wound in the coat, which was gashed from the waist to
the shoulder. I hardly ever saw the elder Newcome in such a state of
triumph. The postboys quite stared at the gratuity he gave them, and
wished they might drive his lordship to the Oaks.

All the time we have been making this sketch Ethel is standing, looking
at Clive; and the blushing youth casts down his eyes before hers. Her
face assumes a look of arch humour. She passes a slim hand over the
prettiest lips and a chin with the most lovely of dimples, thereby
indicating her admiration of Mr. Clive's mustachios and imperial. They
are of a warm yellowish chestnut colour, and have not yet known the
razor. He wears a low cravat; a shirt-front of the finest lawn, with
ruby buttons. His hair, of a lighter colour, waves almost to his "manly
shoulders broad." "Upon my word; my dear Colonel," says Lady Kew, after
looking at him, and nodding her head shrewdly, "I think we were right."

"No doubt right in everything your ladyship does, but in what
particularly?" asks the Colonel.

"Right to keep him out of the way. Ethel has been disposed of these ten
years. Did not Anne tell you? How foolish of her! But all mothers like
to have young men dying for their daughters. Your son is really the
handsomest boy in London. Who is that conceited-looking young man in the
window? Mr. Pen--what? has your son really been very wicked? I was told
he was a sad scapegrace."

"I never knew him do, and I don't believe he ever thought, anything that
was untrue, or unkind, or ungenerous," says the Colonel. "If any one has
belied my boy to you, and I think I know who his enemy has been----"

"The young lady is very pretty," remarks Lady Kew, stopping the
Colonel's further outbreak. "How very young her mother looks! Ethel,
my dear! Colonel Newcome must present us to Mrs. Mackenzie and Miss
Mackenzie;" and Ethel, giving a nod to Clive, with whom she has talked
for a minute or two, again puts her hand in her uncle's, and walks
towards Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter.

And now let the artist, if he has succeeded in drawing Clive to his
liking, cut a fresh pencil, and give us a likeness of Ethel. She is
seventeen years old; rather taller than the majority