that her eyes were bright, and her face beaming, as if divers social
wants and looming penuriousness had never been within her experience. Mr.
Doncastle was quite absorbed in what she was saying. So was the queer
old man whom Menlove had called Lord Mountclere.

'The dashing widow looks very well, does she not?' said a person at
Picotee's elbow.

It was her conductor Menlove, now returned again, whom Picotee had quite
forgotten.

'She will do some damage here to-night you will find,' continued Menlove.
'How long have you been with her?'

'O, a long time--I mean rather a short time,' stammered Picotee.

'I know her well enough. I was her maid once, or rather her mother-in-
law's, but that was long before you knew her. I did not by any means
find her so lovable as you seem to think her when I had to do with her at
close quarters. An awful flirt--awful. Don't you find her so?'

'I don't know.'

'If you don't yet you will know. But come down from your perch--the
dining-room door will not be open again for some time--and I will show
you about the rooms upstairs. This is a larger house than Mrs.
Petherwin's, as you see. Just come and look at the drawing-rooms.'

Wishing much to get rid of Menlove, yet fearing to offend her, Picotee
followed upstairs. Dinner was almost over by this time, and when they