woman in a pearl grey satin, half covered with lace, totters in. Behind her comes her niece, Miss Fleming. More than ever like a white and cold lily does she look as she advances by the side of that brown old witch, and pays her devoirs to Miss Tyburn. She wears white garments that sweep in great soft folds to the ground; they are bordered with a Greek pattern of gold, and about her neck, arms, and waste are clasped heavy dead gold coins. She looks all white and gold, from the crown of her head to the tips of her embroidered brodequins. The scanty folds of the Greek bodice fall away exquisitely from the ivory white shoulders and bosom; the arms, bare from shoulder to wrist, taper divinely, and are softly nicked at elbow and wrist like a baby's. We all hold our breath as we look at her; and Paul Vasher, standing hard by, marks every matchless point of face and figure as no feminine eyes ever could, and does not go near her. On the contrary, he says something to Kate, who leads him up to Mary Burns—comely gentle, honest Mary—and she goes off with him, looking hugely flattered. Miss Fleming is seated in a low chair talking to Mrs. Shrubb, fanning herself slowly with a quaint fan of crimson feathers. The fat boy on seeing her has gasped once and never got his breath back. His father is sitting with a hand grasping each knee, surveying her with senile admiration. Why is not Mr. Vasher by her side? Why is she sitting there alone? She looks as though she did not care, and yet I am sure she does: not often can it fall to her lot to be slighted and set aside for school-girls.
He goes up to her by-and-by though, when the evening is wearing away; and surely she is not proud, for she lays her hand upon his arm, and they waltz together, melting into the long gliding step that each possesses in such perfection. For a time I sit still and look at them, at the dark magnificent looks of the man, and the fair luxuriant beauty of the girl, and think that never surely
