“She is very like yourself, Emmy dear,” said Mr. Benfield, who was listening to their conversation.

“Me, dear uncle; I have never heard it remarked before.”

“Yes, yes, she is as much like you as she can stare.  I never saw as great a resemblance, excepting between you and Lady Juliana—­Lady Juliana, Emmy, was a beauty in her day; very like her uncle, old Admiral Griffin—­you can’t remember the admiral—­he lost an eye in a battle with the Dutch, and part of his cheek in a frigate, when a young man fighting the Dons.  Oh, he was a pleasant old gentleman; many a guinea has he given me when I was a boy at school.”

“And he looked like Grace Chatterton, uncle, did he?” asked John, innocently.

“No, sir, he did not; who said he looked like Grace Chatterton, jackanapes?”

“Why, I thought you made it out, sir:  but perhaps it was the description that deceived me—­his eye and cheek, uncle.”

“Did Lord Gosford leave children, uncle?” inquired Emily, throwing a look of reproach at John.

“No, Emmy dear; his only child, a son, died at school.  I shall never forget the grief of poor Lady Juliana.  She postponed a visit to Bath three weeks on account of it.  A gentleman who was paying his addresses to her at the time, offered then, and was refused—­indeed, her self-denial raised such an admiration of her in the men, that immediately after the death of young Lord Dayton, no less than seven gentlemen offered, and were refused in one week.  I heard Lady Juliana say, that what between lawyers and suitors, she had not a moment’s peace.”

“Lawyers?” cried Sir Edward:  “what had she to do with lawyers?”

“Why, Sir Edward, six thousand a year fell to her by the death of her nephew; and there were trustees and deeds to be made out—­poor young woman, she was so affected, Emmy, I don’t think she went out for a week—­all the time at home reading papers, and attending to her important concerns.  Oh! she was a woman of taste; her mourning, and liveries, and new carriage, were more admired than those of any one about the court.  Yes, yes, the title is extinct; I know of none of the name now.  The Earl did not survive his loss but six years, and the countess died broken-hearted, about a twelvemonth before him.”

“And Lady Juliana, uncle,” inquired John, “what became of her, did she marry?”

The old man helped himself to a glass of wine, and looked over his shoulder to see if Peter was at hand.  Peter, who had been originally butler, and had made it a condition of his preferment, that whenever there was company, he should be allowed to preside at the sideboard, was now at his station.  Mr. Benfield, seeing his old friend near him, ventured to talk on a subject he seldom trusted himself with in company.