With Peter lived Mrs. Saxon’s children by the eminent Q.C.  Basil, who was twenty-five, and Juliet age twenty-two.  They were both handsome and clever, but Juliet was the more sensible of the two.  She detested the sham enthusiasm of The Circle, and appreciated Peter more than her mother did.  Basil had been spoilt by his mother, who considered him a genius, and had produced a book of weak verse.  Juliet was fond of her brother, but she saw his faults and tried to correct them.  She wished to make him more of a man and less of an artistic fraud, for the young man really did possess talents.  But the hothouse atmosphere of “The Shrine of the Muses!” would have ruined anyone possessed of genius, unless he had a strong enough nature to withstand the sickly adulation and false judgments of those who came there.  Basil was not strong.  He was pleasant, idle, rather vain, and a little inclined to be dissipated.  Mrs. Octagon did not know that Basil was fond of dissipation.  She thought him a model young Oxford man, and hoped he would one day be Laureate of England.

Afternoon tea was just ended, and several of Mrs. Octagon’s friends had departed.  Basil and Mr. Octagon were out, but the latter entered with a paper in his hand shortly after the last visitor took her leave.  Mrs. Octagon, in a ruby-colored velvet, looking majestic and self-satisfied, was enthroned—­ the word is not too strong—­in an arm-chair, and Juliet was seated opposite to her turning over the leaves of a new novel produced by one of The Circle.  It was beautifully printed and bound, and beautifully written in “precious” English, but its perusal did not seem to afford her any satisfaction.  Her attention wandered, and every now and then she looked at the door as though expecting someone to enter.  Mrs. Octagon disapproved of Juliet’s pale cheeks and want of attention to her own fascinating conversation, so, when alone, she took the opportunity to correct her.

“My child,” said Mrs. Octagon, who always spoke in a tragic manner, and in a kind of blank-verse way, “to me it seems your cheeks are somewhat pale.”

“I had no sleep last night,” said Juliet, throwing down the book.

“Your thoughts concerned themselves with Cuthbert’s face, no doubt, my love,” said her mother fondly.

“No, I was not thinking of him.  I was worried about—­about—­ my new dress,” she finished, after vainly casting about for some more sensible reason.

“How foolish children are.  You trouble about your dress when you should have been thinking of the man who loves you.”

“Does Cuthbert love me?” asked Juliet, flushing.

“As Romeo loved your namesake, sweetest child.  And a very good match it is too,” added Mrs. Octagon, relapsing into prose.  “He is Lord Caranby’s heir, and will have a title and a fortune some day.  But I would not force you to wed against your will, my dear.”

“I love Cuthbert and Cuthbert loves me,” said Juliet quickly, “we quite understand one another.  I wonder why he did not come to-day.”