f scent. The buttered toast, however, was eaten, and the regular
sporting conversation was carried on. Ayala, however, was not there
to hear it. Ayala was in her own room dreaming.

She was taken in to dinner by a curate in the neighbourhood,--to whom
she endeavoured to make herself very pleasant, while the Colonel
sat at her other side. The curate had a good deal to say as to lawn
tennis. If the weather remained as it was, it was thought that
they could all play lawn tennis on the Tuesday,--when there would
be no hunting. The curate was a pleasant young fellow, and Ayala
devoted herself to him and to their joint hopes for next Tuesday.
Colonel Stubbs never once attempted to interfere with the curate's
opportunity. There was Lady Rufford on the other side of him, and
to Lady Rufford he said all that he did say during dinner. At one
period of the repast she was more than generally lively, because she
felt herself called upon to warn her husband that an attack of the
gout was imminent, and would be certainly produced instantaneously
if he could not deny himself the delight of a certain diet which
was going the round of the table. His lordship smiled and denied
himself,--thinking, as he did so, whether another wife, plus
the gout, would or would not have been better for him. All this
either amused Colonel Stubbs so sufficiently, or else made him so
thoughtful, that he made no attempt to interfere with the curate. In
the evening there was again music,--which resulted in a declaration
made upstairs by Sir Harry to his wife that that wife of Rufford's
was a confounded bore. "We all knew that, my dear, as soon as he
married her," said Lady Albury.

"Why did he marry a bore?"

"Because he wanted a wife to look after himself, and not to amuse his
friends. The wonder used to be that he had done so well."

Not a word had there been,--not a word, since that sound of "Ayala"
had fallen upon her ears. No;--he was not handsome, and his name was
Jonathan Stubbs;--but surely no voice so sweet had ever fallen from a
man's lips! So she sat and dreamed far into the night. He, the Angel
of Light, would certainly have a sweeter voice! That was an attribute
without which no angel could be angelic! As to the face and the name,
that would not perhaps signify. But he must have an intellect high
soaring, a soul tuned to music, and a mind versed in nothing but
great matters. He might be an artist, or more probably a poet;--or
perhaps a musici