Beckley was now in sight from the edge of the downs, lying in its foliage dark under the grey sky backed by motionless mounds of vapour.  Miss Wheedle to her great surprise was suddenly though safely dropped; and on her return to the ground the damsel instantly ‘knew her place,’ and curtseyed becoming gratitude for his kindness; but he was off in a fiery gallop, the gall of Demogorgon in his soul.

What ’s that the leaves of the proud old trees of Beckley Court hiss as he sweeps beneath them?  What has suddenly cut him short?  Is he diminished in stature?  Are the lackeys sneering?  The storm that has passed has marvellously chilled the air.

His sister, the Countess, once explained to him what Demogorgon was, in the sensation it entailed.  ‘You are skinned alive!’ said the Countess.  Evan was skinned alive.  Fly, wretched young man!  Summon your pride, and fly!  Fly, noble youth, for whom storms specially travel to tell you that your mistress makes faces in the looking-glass!  Fly where human lips and noses are not scornfully distorted, and get thee a new skin, and grow and attain to thy natural height in a more genial sphere!  You, ladies and gentlemen, who may have had a matter to conceal, and find that it is oozing out:  you, whose skeleton is seen stalking beside you, you know what it is to be breathed upon:  you, too, are skinned alive:  but this miserable youth is not only flayed, he is doomed calmly to contemplate the hideous image of himself burning on the face of her he loves; making beauty ghastly.  In vain—­for he is two hours behind the dinner-bell—­ Mr. Burley, the butler, bows and offers him viands and wine.  How can he eat, with the phantom of Rose there, covering her head, shuddering, loathing him?  But he must appear in company:  he has a coat, if he has not a skin.  Let him button it, and march boldly.  Our comedies are frequently youth’s tragedies.  We will smile reservedly as we mark Mr. Evan Harrington step into the midst of the fair society of the drawing-room.  Rose is at the piano.  Near her reclines the Countess de Saldar, fanning the languors from her cheeks, with a word for the diplomatist on one side, a whisper for Sir John Loring on the other, and a very quiet pair of eyes for everybody.  Providence, she is sure, is keeping watch to shield her sensitive cuticle; and she is besides exquisitely happy, albeit outwardly composed:  for, in the room sits his Grace the Duke of Belfield, newly arrived.  He is talking to her sister, Mrs. Strike, masked by Miss Current.  The wife of the Major has come this afternoon, and Andrew Cogglesby, who brought her, chats with Lady Jocelyn like an old acquaintance.

Evan shakes the hands of his relatives.  Who shall turn over the leaves of the fair singer’s music-book?  The young men are in the billiard-room:  Drummond is engaged in converse with a lovely person with Giorgione hair, which the Countess intensely admires, and asks the diplomatist whether he can see a soupcon of red in it.  The diplomatist’s taste is for dark beauties:  the Countess is dark.