for the truth, he added, reluctantly enough, as Angey felt, “and I met an old friend, who—who made me remember many painful circumstances."

“Dear me! I'm very sorry, Mr. Denham. I hope your friend hadn't used you ill? But there! nobody would have the heart to go and use you ill, I'm pretty sure!" Angey would have given anything she possessed to know if the friend was of the masculine or feminine gender; somehow her instinct told her the truth, but she spoke as if a female friend was out of the question. "I should hate him, if he had done you any harm; I hate him now, for putting you about so, and making you look so pale."

"We will not talk of my friend, if you please-my friend indeed no longer. I am better now; you will make my excuses to Mrs. Matthews."

"To be sure I will, and I'll send you something that will do you good; but Ma did count on your being in your place to-day, and so did I."

"Why to-day, Miss Matthews?"

"If you'd only call call me Angey now, it would seem not half so stiff, and you one of the family, and have been for this year past! Well! I wanted you to be at table to-day, because there really is a dinner worth eating!-salmon, and green peas, and lamb, and currant tart, and cherry pie. And Ma wanted you because of the new comers.”

"What new comers, Miss Matthews ?”

"There now, Miss Matthews' again! why won't you say Angey, like all the rest?"

"It would be a liberty; I have no right to call you by your Christian name. But about those new comers, I have heard nothing about them."

"Why, Mr. Denham, it's been mentioned continually; nothing else has been talked about in the drawing-room; but there! you go away and shut yourself up before the dessert is on the table-no wonder you are in the dark!”

"But you will enlighten me?"

“Oh, yes! They are in the house now, and Miss

Somerset is in her room, dressing this very minute. Mamma says she is a beautiful girl. I have not seen her, but Addy says she is a great over-grown thing, looking very bold and fast. I am sure I hope she will not get us into any kind of trouble; it is a pity to have that sort of person in a select family like this."

"But you spoke of more than one arrival; who accompanies Miss Somerset ?"

"Oh! her father-a fine-looking man, only I don't quite like his eyes, they seem to me to have a sort of -what do you call it ?-expression."

"A sinister expression," suggested Cyril.

"Yes! only I never can think of the right word when I want it."

"Then we have a Mr. and a Miss Somerset among us! I hope they may prove an agreeable addition to our circle. But now, if you will excuse me, I will go up-stairs; if I feel better, I will join you in the course of the evening. You will say all that is necessary for me, I am sure."

And Cyril departed, and Angelina lingered a minute or two in the bookless library to say to herself, "I wonder now who it was he met ! He is so close about his friends; I am half afraid it is some love affair that is making him so miserable. Ah! he'll come into a splendid fortune some day, and marry a lady of title, as he ought to do. I know I might as well have fallen in love with one of the planets, or with a prince!—Ah! unhappy Angelina !" And Angey glanced commiseratingly on her showy muslin flounces, and heaved a deep, deep sigh, that came, however, from the very bottom of her too susceptible, but really kindly heart.

233

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

LATER in the evening, Cyril, feeling really better, and also angry with himself for the emotion he had not been able to suppress, went down-stairs, and made his appearance in the drawing-room. Mrs. Matthews was openly, and the young ladies were secretly, delighted; only the elder lady resolved to speak to him in a serious motherly way, at the first opportunity, on the impropriety of general negligence of toilet. But Adeline and Angey thought he looked far more interesting than Mr. Gregory or Mr. Battelbringer, who had donned white waistcoats, and white kid-gloves, to say nothing of very stylish neck-ties in honour of the new arrivals. "And yet," said Adeline Grundison afterwards to Angey, "they looked like snobs, as they are, while he was quite the gentleman!" "Yes!" cried Angey, enthusiastically, "and if he were working as a navvy, in shirt-sleeves and trousers all over red clay, any one would know him for a gentleman!"

But meanwhile, Mrs. Matthews, who prided herself exceedingly on always doing everything en ceremonie, and in accordance with the rules of fashionable etiquette, had taken Cyril's arm, and led him up to a tall, elegant young woman, and introduced him to Miss Somerset, and then to Mr. Somerset, a distinguished-looking man, who in some way reminded him of Vivian Gower, and was therefore regarded with some amount of prejudice.

Now Cyril had been by no means pleased at hearing of Miss Somerset's advent, for he was heartily tired of the underbred airs and graces of the young

ladies of the "family," only he had consoled himself with reflecting that it was but for a very little while, since he contemplated giving Mrs. Matthews notice— just four weeks from that day. That encounter in Grosvenor Place more than ever decided him to seek, if not the dusky squaw, at least some foreign clime far away from the land where he had borne so much. But had Cyril really not been a gentleman, he would certainly have betrayed something of the surprise he experienced on being presented to Miss Somerset. He had scarcely thought about her at all, but he had intuitively pictured her as another edition of Angey and Adeline-a nymph, all ringlets or braids, and flounces and ribbons, and little frills, and bad jewellery, with a shrieking soprano voice, and a decided taste for crashing, scrambling fantasias and overtures! But there sat, what seemed at least, a veritable lady, beautiful as Elizabeth herself, dignified, quiet, and attired in very simple and elegant half-mourning, apparently as much out of place in that shabby-genteel drawing-room, as a stately lily among the hedgerow buttercups and dandelions. Miss Somerset's beauty was of the very highest order; her features were classical, her complexion brilliant, her eyes dark as midnight, and her hair of raven blackness, and silken texture; her voice too was sweet, and her manner gentle, though reserved.

She and Cyril became wonderfully intimate before the evening was over. I think it was the vocal Norma duet which chiefly drew them together, for though Laura Somerset made no remark, it was not difficult to see that she was excruciated under the infliction of the vile Italian, and the badly rendered passages. Presently, Mrs. Matthews approached, and said, "Now, my dear Miss Somerset, I am sure you play?" Miss Somerset assented. Yes, she played, and she did not say she played a little, or that she was out of practice. "You will favour us then, I am sure?" persisted Mrs. Matthews, in her blandest

tones.

"Certainly!" was Laura's answer; "which do you prefer, vocal or instrumental music?"

"Ah! both! both-please." And Mrs. Matthews went into ecstasies with her accomplished boarder on the spot.

Miss Somerset quietly rose, and placed her bouquet, as a matter of course, in Cyril's hands; it seemed a natural thing to her that men should serve her, as if she had been born a princess; and it was with a very princess-like air that she took her seat at the pianoforte, took off her bracelets, and laid down her embroidered pocket-handkerchief.

“Shall I lend you some music?" said Adeline, officiously; "I dare say yours is not unpacked yet.'

"

"It has not even arrived," returned Miss Somerset ; "it comes to-morrow with my own piano. But I will not trouble you. I can recall something, I dare say: I have an excellent musical memory." Adeline and Angey hated her on the spot for her calm superiority and statuesque loveliness; but they would have given all their treasures to be able to sit there as she satgraceful, unembarrassed, perfectly possessed, and Cyril standing as her vassal, ready to obey her sovereign behests; and they hated her still more when she began to play; her fingers wandered swiftly and accurately over the shaky keys; she brought out tones that no one ever dreamed the poor old instrument possessed; she interpreted Mendelssohn so divinely, that the great master himself could scarcely have wished an accent or a modulation altered. And every one listened in breathless silence till the last passage died away like the echo of sweet bells, not in crashing chords, with the forte pedal on, as was the style of Adeline and Angey's finishes; and then there was an immediate encore, to which, however, Miss Somerset refused to listen: "she never repeated herself," she said, coldly; "she would play something else;" and while they were all expecting another dreamy Lied or Reverie, she began one of Beethoven's grandest symphonies, and played it all