The scene—­at the opening of the party—­was as pleasant to look at as light and beauty and movement could make it.

Inside the summer-house the butterfly-brightness of the women in their summer dresses shone radiant out of the gloom shed round it by the dreary modern clothing of the men.  Outside the summer-house, seen through three arched openings, the cool green prospect of a lawn led away, in the distance, to flower-beds and shrubberies, and, farther still, disclosed, through a break in the trees, a grand stone house which closed the view, with a fountain in front of it playing in the sun.

They were half of them laughing, they were all of them talking—­the comfortable hum of their voices was at its loudest; the cheery pealing of the laughter was soaring to its highest notes—­when one dominant voice, rising clear and shrill above all the rest, called imperatively for silence.  The moment after, a young lady stepped into the vacant space in front of the summer-house, and surveyed the throng of guests as a general in command surveys a regiment under review.

She was young, she was pretty, she was plump, she was fair.  She was not the least embarrassed by her prominent position.  She was dressed in the height of the fashion.  A hat, like a cheese-plate, was tilted over her forehead.  A balloon of light brown hair soared, fully inflated, from the crown of her head.  A cataract of beads poured over her bosom.  A pair of cock-chafers in enamel (frightfully like the living originals) hung at her ears.  Her scanty skirts shone splendid with the blue of heaven.  Her ankles twinkled in striped stockings.  Her shoes were of the sort called “Watteau.”  And her heels were of the height at which men shudder, and ask themselves (in contemplating an otherwise lovable woman), “Can this charming person straighten her knees?”

The young lady thus presenting herself to the general view was Miss Blanche Lundie—­once the little rosy Blanche whom the Prologue has introduced to the reader.  Age, at the present time, eighteen.  Position, excellent.  Money, certain.  Temper, quick.  Disposition, variable.  In a word, a child of the modern time—­with the merits of the age we live in, and the failings of the age we live in—­and a substance of sincerity and truth and feeling underlying it all.

“Now then, good people,” cried Miss Blanche, “silence, if you please!  We are going to choose sides at croquet.  Business, business, business!”

Upon this, a second lady among the company assumed a position of prominence, and answered the young person who had just spoken with a look of mild reproof, and in a tone of benevolent protest.

The second lady was tall, and solid, and five-and-thirty.  She presented to the general observation a cruel aquiline nose, an obstinate straight chin, magnificent dark hair and eyes, a serene splendor of fawn-colored apparel, and a lazy grace of movement which was attractive at first sight, but inexpressibly monotonous and wearisome on a longer acquaintance.  This was Lady Lundie the Second, now the widow (after four months only of married life) of Sir Thomas Lundie, deceased.  In other words, the step-mother of Blanche, and the enviable person who had taken the house and lands of Windygates.