“Really, Major Campbell!  You bring in Mr. Vavasour, and let me walk behind as I can; and then let me sit three whole minutes in your house without deigning to speak to me!”

“Ah! my dear Queen Whims!” answered he, returning suddenly to his gay tone; “and how have you been misbehaving yourself since we met last?”

“I have not been misbehaving myself at all, mon cher Saint Pere, as Mr. Vavasour will answer for me, during the most delightful fortnight I ever spent!”

“Delightful indeed!” said Elsley, as he was bound to say:  but he said it with an earnestness which made the Major fix his eyes on him.  “Why should he not find any and every fortnight as delightful as his last?” said he to himself; but now Valencia began bantering him about his books and his animals; wanting to look through his microscope, pulling off her hat for the purpose, laughing when her curls blinded her, letting them blind her in order to toss them back in the prettiest way, jesting at him about “his old fogies” at the Linnaean Society; clapping her hands in ecstasy when he answered that they were not old fogies at all, but the most charming set of men in England, and that (with no offence to the name of Scoutbush) he was prouder of being an F.L.S., than if he were a peer of the realm,—­and so forth; all which harmless pleasantry made Elsley cross, and more cross—­first, because he did not mix in it; next, because he could not mix in it if he tried.  He liked to be always in the seventh heaven; and if other people were anywhere else, he thought them bores.

At last,—­“Now, if you will be good for five minutes,” said the Major, “I will show you something really beautiful.”

“I can see that,” answered she, with the most charming impudence, “in another glass besides your magnifying one.”

“Be it so:  but look here, and see what an exquisite world there is, of which you never dream; and which behaves a great deal better in its station than the world of which you do dream!”

When Campbell spoke in that way, Valencia was good at once; and as she went obediently to the microscope, she whispered, “Don’t be angry with me, mon Saint Pere.”

“Don’t be naughty, then, ma chere enfant” whispered he; for he saw something about Elsley’s face which gave him a painful suspicion.

She looked long, and then lifted up her head suddenly—­“Do come and look, Mr. Vavasour, at this exquisite little glass fairy, like—­I cannot tell what like, but a pure spirit hovering in some nun’s dream!  Come!”

Elsley came, and looked; and when he looked he started, for it was the very same zoophyte which Thurnall had shown him on a certain memorable day.

“Where did you find the fairy, mon Saint Pere?”

“I had no such good fortune.  Mr. Thurnall, the doctor, gave it me.”

“Thurnall?” said she, while Elsley kept still looking, to hide cheeks which were growing very red.  “He is such a clever man, they say.  Where did you meet him?  I have often thought of asking Mr. Vavasour to invite him up for an evening with his microscope.  He seems so superior to the people round him.  It would be a charity, really, Mr. Vavasour.”