“One who does not suffer can hardly assent,” the curate answered, basking in her beams.

“Ah, you are good!” exclaimed the lady.  “Look at my Clare.  She will not dance on her cousin’s birthday with anyone but him.  What are we to do to enliven these people?”

“Alas, madam! you cannot do for all what you do for one,” the curate sighed, and wherever she wandered in discourse, drew her back with silken strings to gaze on his enamoured soul.

He was the only gratified stranger present.  The others had designs on the young heir.  Lady Attenbury of Longford House had brought her highly-polished specimen of market-ware, the Lady Juliana Jaye, for a first introduction to him, thinking he had arrived at an age to estimate and pine for her black eyes and pretty pert mouth.  The Lady Juliana had to pair off with a dapper Papworth, and her mama was subjected to the gallantries of Sir Miles, who talked land and steam-engines to her till she was sick, and had to be impertinent in self-defence.  Lady Blandish, the delightful widow, sat apart with Adrian, and enjoyed his sarcasms on the company.  By ten at night the poor show ended, and the rooms were dark, dark as the prognostics multitudinously hinted by the disappointed and chilled guests concerning the probable future of the hope of Raynham.  Little Clare kissed her mama, curtsied to the lingering curate, and went to bed like a very good girl.  Immediately the maid had departed, little Clare deliberately exchanged night, attire for that of day.  She was noted as an obedient child.  Her light was allowed to burn in her room for half-an-hour, to counteract her fears of the dark.  She took the light, and stole on tiptoe to Richard’s room.  No Richard was there.  She peeped in further and further.  A trifling agitation of the curtains shot her back through the door and along the passage to her own bedchamber with extreme expedition.  She was not much alarmed, but feeling guilty she was on her guard.  In a short time she was prowling about the passages again.  Richard had slighted and offended the little lady, and was to be asked whether he did not repent such conduct toward his cousin; not to be asked whether he had forgotten to receive his birthday kiss from her; for, if he did not choose to remember that, Miss Clare would never remind him of it, and to-night should be his last chance of a reconciliation.  Thus she meditated, sitting on a stair, and presently heard Richard’s voice below in the hall, shouting for supper.

“Master Richard has returned,” old Benson the butler tolled out intelligence to Sir Austin.

“Well?” said the baronet.

“He complains of being hungry,” the butler hesitated, with a look of solemn disgust.

“Let him eat.”

Heavy Benson hesitated still more as he announced that the boy had called for wine.  It was an unprecedented thing.  Sir Austin’s brows were portending an arch, but Adrian suggested that he wanted possibly to drink his birthday, and claret was conceded.