I had kept to the last to make them more emphatic; then dashing after the housekeeper, leaving them to work—­ my great room, where it was a perfect journey from the fire to the toilet-table—­my black lace dress, and the silver ornaments those dear nephews had brought me from London—­and in the midst of my hair-doing dear little Viola’s running in to me in one of her ecstacies, hugging me, to the detriment of Colman’s fabric and her own, and then dancing round and round me in her pretty white cloudy tulle, looped up with snowdrops.  The one thing that had been wanting to her was that her dear, darling, delightful Lucy should be at her own ball—­ her birthday ball; and just as she had despaired, it had all come right, owing to that glorious old giant of ours; and she went off into a series of rapturous little laughs over Dermot’s account of her uncle’s arrival pick-a-back.  It was of no use to look cautious, and sign at Colman; Viola had no notion of restraint; and I was thankful when my dress was complete, and we were left alone, so that I could listen without compunction to the story of Lord Erymanth’s arrival at Arked House, and solemn assurance that he had been most hospitably received, and that his own observation and inquiry had convinced him that Mr. Alison was a highly estimable young man, in spite of all disadvantages, unassuming, well-mannered, and grateful for good advice.  Dermot had shown his discernment in making him his friend, and Lucy had, in truth, acted with much courage, as well as good judgment, in remaining with him; “and that so horrified mamma,” said Viola, “that she turned me out of the room, so I don’t know how they fought it out; but mamma must have given in at last, though she has never said one word to me about it, not even that you were all to be here.  What a good thing it is to have a brother!  I should never have known but for Dermot.  And, do you know, he says that my uncle’s pet is the cousin, after all—­the deferential fool of a—­cousin, he says.”

“Hush, hush, Viola!”

“I didn’t say so—­it was Dermot!” said the naughty child, with a little arch pout; “he says it is just like my uncle to be taken with a little worship from—­well, he is your nephew, Lucy, so I will be politer than Dermot, who does rage because he says Mr. Alison has not even sense to see that he is dressed in his cousin’s plumes.”

“He is very fond of Harold, Viola, and they both of them do it in simplicity; Harold does the things for Eustace, and never even sees that the credit is taken from him.  It is what he does it for.”

“Then he is a regular stupid old jolly giant,” said Viola.  “Oh, Lucy, what delicious thing is this?”