the diplomatist an opportunity to thank her flatteringly for gaining them two minutes to themselves.  Sir John waved his handkerchief in triumph, welcoming them under an awning where carpets and cushions were spread, and whence the Countess could eye the field.  She was dressed ravishingly; slightly in a foreign style, the bodice being peaked at the waist, as was then the Portuguese persuasion.  The neck, too, was deliciously veiled with fine lace—­and thoroughly veiled, for it was a feature the Countess did not care to expose to the vulgar daylight.  Off her gentle shoulders, as it were some fringe of cloud blown by the breeze this sweet lady opened her bosom to, curled a lovely black lace scarf:  not Caroline’s.  If she laughed, the tinge of mourning lent her laughter new charms.  If she sighed, the exuberant array of her apparel bade the spectator be of good cheer.  Was she witty, men surrendered reason and adored her.  Only when she entered the majestic mood, and assumed the languors of greatness, and recited musky anecdotes of her intimacy with it, only then did mankind, as represented at Beckley Court, open an internal eye and reflect that it was wonderful in a tailor’s daughter.  And she felt that mankind did so reflect.  Her instincts did not deceive her.  She knew not how much was known; in the depths of her heart she kept low the fear that possibly all might be known; and succeeding in this, she said to herself that probably nothing was known after all.  George Uplift, Miss Carrington, and Rose, were the three she abhorred.  Partly to be out of their way, and to be out of the way of chance shots (for she had heard names of people coming that reminded her of Dubbins’s, where, in past days, there had been on one awful occasion a terrific discovery made), the Countess selected Olympus for her station.  It was her last day, and she determined to be happy.  Doubtless, she was making a retreat, but have not illustrious Generals snatched victory from their pursuers?  Fair, then, sweet, and full of grace, the Countess moved.  As the restless shifting of colours to her motions was the constant interchange of her semisorrowful manner and ready archness.  Sir John almost capered to please her, and the diplomatist in talking to her forgot his diplomacy and the craft of his tongue.

It was the last day also of Caroline and the Duke.  The Countess clung to Caroline and the Duke more than to Evan and Rose.  She could see the first couple walking under an avenue of limes, and near them that young man or monkey, Raikes, as if in ambush.  Twice they passed him, and twice he doffed his hat and did homage.

‘A most singular creature!’ exclaimed the Countess.  ’It is my constant marvel where my brother discovered such a curiosity.  Do notice him.’

‘That man?  Raikes?’ said the diplomatist.  ’Do you know he is our rival?  Harry wanted an excuse for another bottle last night, and proposed the “Member” for Fallowfield.  Up got this Mr. Raikes and returned thanks.’