“She has given up the management of all matters of society to me,” said Cecil with dignity; “you may reckon on me.”

“No hope of the Bowaters, of course,” said Mrs. Duncombe.

“Miss Bowater is coming to stay with us,” volunteered Cecil.

“To be near that unlucky Life Guardsman manque,” said Mrs. Duncombe.

“Come, I’ll not have honest Herbert abused,” said the other lady.  “He is the only one of the Bowaters who has any go in him.”

“More’s the pity, if he can’t use it.  Is his sister coming to help the Reverend Julius to drill him?”

“On Mrs. Poynsett’s account too, I fancy,” said Lady Tyrrell; “Jenny Bowater is her amateur companion.  Indeed, I believe it was no slight disappointment that her sons’ appreciation did not quite reach the pitch of the mother’s.”

“Indeed!” asked Mrs. Duncombe; “I thought there had been a foolish affair with poor young Douglas.”

“Cela n’empeche pas.  By the bye, have you finished Fleurange?”

“Oh, you are quite welcome to it.  It is quite as goody as an English tale in one volume.”

This opened the way to Cecil’s desire to borrow Lanfrey, not concealing the reason why; and she was gratified by the full sympathy of both ladies, who invited her in self-defence to join in their subscription to Rolandi, to which she eagerly agreed, and would have paid her subscription at once if there had not been a term to be finished off first.

The gong summoned them to luncheon, and likewise brought down Miss Vivian, who shook hands rather stiffly, and wore a cold, grave manner that did not sit badly on her handsome classical features.  The countenance was very fine, but of the style to which early youth is less favourable than a more mature development; and she was less universally admired than was her sister.  Her dress was a dark maroon merino, hanging in simple, long, straight folds, and there was as little distortion in her coiffure as the most moderate compliance with fashion permitted; and this, with a high-bred, distinguished deportment, gave an air almost of stern severity.  This deepened rather than relaxed at the greeting from Frank—­who, poor fellow! had an uncontrollably wistful eager look in his face, a sort of shy entreaty, and was under an incapacity of keeping up a conversation with anybody else, while trying to catch the least word of hers.

She, however, seemed to have more eyes and ears for her father than for any one else, and he evidently viewed her as the darling and treasure of his life.  His first question, after performing the duties of a host, was, “Well, my little Lenore, what have you been doing?”

“The old story, papa,” raising her clear, sweet voice to reach his rather deaf ears.

“Got on with your drawing?—­The child is competing with a club, you must know.”

“Not exactly, papa:  it is only a little society that was set on foot at Rockpier to help us to improve ourselves.”