And then the young lady herself appeared.  She had been driving about with Clara among various shops, and now bore upon her person the charming result of these journeys, in the shape of a garment, which was rich in texture, and splendid in the making.  And she really was a handsome girl, only with a certain air of being dressed for the stage.  But Arnold, now more than suspicious, was not dazzled by the gorgeous raiment, and only considered how his cousin could for a moment imagine this person to be a lady, and how it would be best to break the news.

“Clara’s cousin,” she said, “I have forgotten your name; but how do you do, again?”

And then they went in to dinner.

“You have learned, I suppose,” said Arnold, “something about the Deseret family by this time?”

“Oh, yes, I have heard all about the family-tree.  I dare say I shall get to know it by heart in time.  But you don’t expect me all at once, to care much for it.”

“Little Republican!” said Clara.  “She actually does not feel a pride in belonging to a good old family.”

The girl made a little gesture.

“Your family can’t do much for you, that I can see, except to make you proud, and pretend not to see other women in the shop.  That is what the county ladies do.”

“Why, my dear, what on earth do you know of the county ladies?”

Lotty blushed a little.  She had made a mistake.  But she quickly recovered.

“I only know what I’ve read, cousin, about any kind of English ladies.  But that’s enough, I’m sure.  Stuck-up things!”

And again she observed, from Clara’s pained expression, that she had made another mistake.

If she showed a liking for stout at lunch, she manifested a positive passion for champagne at dinner.

“I do like the English custom,” she said, “of having two dinners in the day.”

“Ladies in America, I suppose,” said Clara, “dine in the middle of the day?”

“Always.”

“But I have visited many families in New York and Boston who dined late,” said Arnold.

“Dare say,” she replied carelessly.  “I’m going to have some more of that curry stuff, please.  And don’t ask any more questions, anybody, till I’ve worried through with it.  I’m a wolf at curry.”

“She likes England, Arnold,” said Clara, covering up this remark, so to speak.  “She likes the country, she says, very much.”

“At all events,” said the girl, “I like this house, which is first-class—­fine—­proper.  And the furniture, and pictures, and all—­tiptop.  But I’m afraid it is going to be awful dull, except at meals, and when the Boy is going.”  Her own head was just touched by the “Boy,” and she was a little off her guard.

“My dear child,” said Clara, “you have only just come, and you have not yet learned to know and love your own home and your father’s friends.  You must take a little time.”

“Oh, I’ll take time.  As long as you like.  But I shall soon be tired of sitting at home.  I want to go about and see things—­theaters and music-halls, and all kinds of places.”