seeming so smooth and so easy. Only an occasional sarcasm reveals the unquiet of the subdued, but feverish heart. Nothing could be gayer in appearance than the little circle assembled at Lady Harvey's villa. It was a very warm evening; and the moonlight turned the Thames to an unbroken mirror of silver, and gave to the soft shadows of the shrubs, and the creepers that wound among the trellises, an appearance almost Italian. Watteau might have painted the group on the lawn; and, assuredly, Lady Marchmont, Lady Mary Wortley, and Miss Churchill, were each exquisite specimens of different styles of beauty.
"I am not sure," exclaimed Lady Mary, "that I like moonlight; it makes one look so pale."
"Well, if it does," returned Sir George Kingston, glancing at Lady Marchmont, whose regular features seemed outlined on the air like those of a statue,—
"'Paleur qui marque une ame tendre
A bien son prix.'"
Lady Mary observed the look, and it put
