were of this class.  Then again, deep down in his own soul, he resented the fact that Maryllia Vancourt entertained this sort of people as her guests.  She was much too good for them, he thought,—­she wronged herself by being in their company, or allowing them to be in hers!  He watched her as she received part of the ‘county’ in the Ittlethwaites of Ittlethwaite Park, with a charming smile of welcome for Bruce Ittlethwaite, a lively bachelor of sixty, and for his eldest sister Arabella, some ten years younger, a lady whose portly form was attired in a wonderful apple-green satin, trimmed with priceless lace, the latter entirely lost as an article of value, among the misshapen folds of the green gown, which had been created, no doubt, by some local dressmaker, whose ideas were evidently more voluminous than artistic.  And presently, as he stood, a quiet spectator of the different types of persons who were mingling with each other in the casual conversation on current topics and events, which always occupies that interval of time known as the ‘mauvais quart d’heure’ before the announcement of dinner, he happened to look at Maryllia’s own dress, and, noticing it more closely, smiled.  It was not the first time he had seen that dress!—­and a faint colour warmed his cheeks as he remembered the occasion when Mrs. Spruce had sent for him as a ‘man o’ God’ to serve as a witness to her system of unpacking her lady’s wardrobe.  That was the dress the garrulous old housekeeper had held up in her arms as though she were a clothes-prop, with the observation, ‘It’s orful wot the world’s a-comin’ to--orful!  Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown!’ The gown with the ‘diamants’ was the very one which now clothed Maryllia,—­falling over an underskirt of palest pink satin, it glittered softly about her like dew spangles on rose-leaves—­and involuntarily Walden thought of the pink shoes he had also seen,—­those absurd little shoes!—­did she wear them with that fairy-like frock, he wondered?  He dared not look towards the floor, lest he should catch a sudden glimpse of the shining points of that ridiculous but fascinating foot-gear that had once so curiously discomposed him.  Those shoes might peep out at any moment from under the ’diamants’—­with a blink of familiarity which would be, to say the least of it, embarrassing.  His reflections were at this juncture interrupted by a smooth voice at his ear.

“How do you do, Mr. Walden?”

A glance showed the speaker to be Mr. Marius Longford, and he responded with brief courtesy.

“Permit me”—­continued Mr. Longford—­“to introduce you to Lord Roxmouth!”

Walden bowed stiffly.

“I must congratulate you on the beauty of your church, Mr. Walden,"- -said Roxmouth, with his usual conventional smile—­“I have never seen a finer piece of work.  It is not so much a restoration as a creation.”

Walden said nothing.  He did not particularly care for compliments from Lord Roxmouth.