“Yet everything will go right if he only likes me!” To be liked, to be loved, that comprises all else with a girl.  This one was not quite a fool, only had not outlived her youthful illusions.

An ardent desire to attain anything goes far towards success.  Fearful of being thought forward, yet longing to please, she seemed to awaken an interest in Lord Bromley; though he talked playfully to all three, his indulgent smile was for Bluebell.  Another expression appeared sometimes on his face, the same that had perplexed her the previous evening—­an investigating, speculating glance:  and once, when becoming more at ease, her features resumed their play, his were suddenly contorted, as if a sharp pang had seized him.

The walk seemed all too short, for Lord Bromley did not take the second, but retraced his steps to the house.  Bluebell fell into a reverie, till something in the children’s chatter attracted her attention.

“Wasn’t he nice this morning?  Never saw him in such a good humour!  Why, he hardly ever speaks to us!—­hates children, mamma says.  Do you know, Miss Leigh, Uncle Bromley never walked with us so far before.”

“Perhaps he thinks you are getting to a more companionable age,” said Bluebell, blushing; but her heart bounded triumphantly.

It was an intensely hot afternoon.  The ladies and some of the gentlemen were grouped under the lime-trees near the house.  Kate, standing by a gipsy table, was pouring out tea, and keeping up a running fire of merry nonsense, her usual staff of danglers hovering near.  The elder ladies seemed equally content, knitting shawls and weaving scandal.  The bees were humming in the limes, “the rich music of a summer bird” overhead.  The very air seemed green in the shadow of the trees.

“There,” cried Kate, petulantly, “as sure as ever one is innocently happy in this wicked world, some species of amateur police obliges one to ’move on.’” And she glanced over her shoulder at a gentleman approaching.

He walked straight up to the group with a business-like, uncompromising manner, very different to the dolce far niente attitudes; yet four of the number rose at once to join him.

“Do have a cup of tea,” cried Kate, enticingly, with the view to a reprieve.

“No, thank you; never touch it.  There is not too much time, Miss Barrington.”

“I know, I know,” with a resigned air, and a shrug to the four who had risen.  And without another word they all mysteriously followed their summoner to the house.

“What can they be going to do with Mr. Barton?” asked one of the ladies.

“Oh, it’s a great secret,” said Mrs. Barrington, laughing affectedly, “if they can only keep it.”

In fact, it was a rehearsal.  Mr. Barton was stage-manager, and ruled them with a rod of iron.  He made the timid “speak up,” the giddy, practise over and over again which side of the stage they were to enter and leave by; threw more spirit in here, checked ranting there, and ventured to object to the key in which Kate, as heroine, sang her song.  He permitted “gagging” as a proof of presence of mind, provided the cue was forthcoming; but now his great soul was perturbed by the absence of a prompter.