“That’s a pretty girl,” thought his Lordship, continuing on his way.

He was in the habit of taking this constitutional every morning before breakfast, sometimes twice round, sometimes once.  This day it was twice, and, walking at about an equal pace, the school-room party were passing him nearly on the same spot.

Lord Bromley paused again, said something to the children, and took a second glance at Bluebell.

“You are a young mistress of the ceremonies, Mabel; but why don’t you present me to this young lady?”

Mabel looked up in astonishment, then said promptly, “Miss Leigh, Lord Bromley.”

A slight tremor passed over his face, and he leant a little more on his stick, giving Bluebell an impression of extreme feebleness.  After a mechanical observation or two, rather to her disappointment he walked away, without further improving the introduction.

Mrs. Barrington wished lessons to be proceeded with in the forenoon, so they did not leave the nursery.  In the evening the children were desired to dress and come down with Bluebell till bed-time.  It seems rather a triste pleasure for a governess to have the trouble and expense of an evening toilette, with no expectation of entertainment beyond a cup of coffee if the servants remember to offer it, and the enforced conversation of some good-hearted guest, who, in the absence of any subject in common, can think of no more suggestive topic than inquiries into her daily walks, with threadbare remarks on the scenery.  If she is lively, and strikes out into fresh fields and pastures new, “she is forward, and a flirt.”  If otherwise, she mounts the stereotyped smile, and gushes about the singing in church and picturesqueness of the neighbourhood, which, probably, by this time she loathes every feature of.  Then come long pauses; the philanthropic guest mingles in general conversation, and edges away, leaving her to retreat upon a photograph book.

Little of all this did Bluebell dread,—­she only longed to get downstairs on any terms.  Immured in the nursery, how could her little plot proceed?  Her simple toilette was carefully considered while brushing out and arranging the shining coils of chestnut hair.  Yet it was only a black muslin dress, cut en coeur, and relieved with her favourite ruffles.  The children had brought handfuls of roses from the rosary—­yellow, crimson, white, blush, pink.  A York and Lancaster in her hair, a tea-rose in her bosom, and she was ready.

Only the ladies were in the large saloon, which again dazzled the unsophisticated Bluebell with its magnificence.  She found herself, as before, little noticed; but, the pictures, which she might study uninterruptedly from a secluded corner, entertained her for some time.  There were full-length portraits of Court ladies, by Lely, with wonderful lace on brocaded gowns.  One had a little dog half hidden in the folds.  The arch face of Nell Gwynne smiled over a door, a