the palm for their handsome, pale, regularly cut features and their calm, observant eyes, there was something in the bright, vivacious look of the eldest that outweighed these advantages; while in society, and especially as a hostess in her own house, the charm of Lady Adela’s manner, and her quick, sympathetic, engaging ways made her a universal favorite.  And one was tempted, in amazement, to ask how it came about that a woman so alert and intelligent, so conversant with the world, so ready to note the ridiculous side of things, could not understand what a poor and lamentable figure she made as an amateur authoress?  But had the Lady Sybil any less confidence in her musical attainments, when she would undertake to play a duet with one of the most distinguished of professional musicians, she on the violin, he at the piano?  And here, at this very moment, was Lady Rosamund talking to by far and away the greatest painter in England, and there was a picture before them on an easel, and she was saying to him, with perfect coolness,

“Why, I see you use cadmium yellow, Mr. Mellord!  I never do.”

Somehow an impression got abroad through these brilliant rooms that Mr. Moore was going to sing; and at length Mrs. Mellord came to the young man and frankly preferred her request.

“Oh, yes,” said he, most good-naturedly.

“The serenade?” she ventured to hint.

“Oh, not the serenade!” said he, with a laugh.  “Every butcher’s boy in the streets whistles it.”

“All England is singing it—­and a good thing, too,” she made answer; and then she said, with some emphasis:  “I am sure no one rejoices more than myself at the great popularity of ‘The Squire’s Daughter.’  I am very glad to see that a comedy-opera may be based on the best traditions of English music; and I hope we shall have a great deal less of the Offenbach tinkle-tankle.”

“The serenade, if you like, then,” said he, with, careless good-humor; what did it matter to him?

“And whom shall I get to play an accompaniment for you?”

“Oh, you needn’t trouble; I can do that for myself—­”

“But you must make one young lady supremely happy,” said she, with insidious flattery.

He glanced round the studio.

“I see Miss Lestrange over there—­she has played it for me before—­without the music, I mean.”

“Then I’ll go and fetch her,” said the indefatigable hostess; and now everybody seemed to know that Mr. Lionel Moore was about to sing “The Starry Night.”

Miss Georgie Lestrange was no sooner appealed to than she came through the crowd, smiling and laughing.  She was an exceedingly pretty lass, with fresh-complexioned cheeks, a pert and attractive nose, a winsome mouth, and merry blue eyes that were hardly made grave by the pince-nez that she habitually wore.  She was very prettily dressed, too—­in blue-and-silver brocade, with a high Medici collar of silver lace, puffed sleeves with twisted cords of silver, and silver fillets binding the abundant masses of her ruddy-golden hair.  She sat down at the piano, and the first notes of the accompaniment deepened the silence that now prevailed, not only in this big studio, but throughout the communicating rooms.