herself up to read books.  Such a taste for reading and moping she had never seen in a girl before—­voila un type de vieille fille.  Whom did she take after?  Certainly not after her mother, nor yet her father.  But what was the good of thinking of the tiresome girl?  There were plenty of other things far more important to consider, and the first thing of all was—­how to make Olive forget Captain Hibbert?  On this point Mrs. Barton was not quite satisfied with the manner in which she had played her part.  Olive’s engagement had been broken off by too violent means, and nothing was more against her nature than (to use her own expression) brusquer les choses.  Early in life Mrs. Barton discovered that she could amuse men, and since then she had devoted herself assiduously to the cultivation of this talent, and the divorce between herself and her own sex was from the first complete.  She not only did not seek to please, but she made no attempt to conceal her aversion from the society of women, and her preference for those forms of entertainment where they were found in fewest numbers.  Balls were, therefore, never much to her taste; at the dinner-table she was freer, but it was on the racecourse that she reigned supreme.  From the box-seat of a drag the white hands were waved, the cajoling laugh was set going; and fashionably-dressed men, with race-glasses about their shoulders, came crowding and climbing about her like bees about their queen.  Mrs. Barton had passed from flirtation to flirtation without a violent word.  With a wave of her hands she had called the man she wanted; with a wave of her hands, and a tinkle of the bell-like laugh, she had dismissed him.  As nothing had cost her a sigh, nothing had been denied her.  But now all was going wrong.  Olive was crying and losing her good looks.  Mr. Barton had received a threatening letter, and, in consequence, had for a week past been unable to tune his guitar; poor Lord Dungory was being bored to death by policemen and proselytizing daughters.  Everything was going wrong.  This phrase recurred in Mrs. Barton’s thoughts as she reviewed the situation, her head leaned in the pose of the most plaintive of the pastels that Lord Dungory had commissioned his favourite artist to execute in imitation of the Lady Hamilton portraits.  And now, his finger on his lip, like harlequin glancing after columbine, the old gentleman, who had entered on tiptoe, exclaimed: 

        ’"Avez vous vu, dans Barcelone
          Une Andalouse au sein bruni? 
          Pale comme un beau soir d’ Automne;
          C’est ma maitresse, ma lionne! 
          La Marquesa d’ Amalequi."’

Instantly the silver laugh was set a-tinkling, and, with delightful gestures, Milord was led captive to the sofa.

‘C’est l’aurore qui vient pour dissiper les brumes du matin,’ Mrs. Barton declared as she settled her skirts over her ankles.

        ’"Qu’elle est superbe en son desordre
          Quand elle tombe. . . ."’