“You did not speak at all, I think, to your neighbor on the right; that was wise of you. He is a most insufferable person, but mamma bears with him for the sake of his daughter, who sang just now. He is too rich. And he smiles blandly, and takes a sort of after-dinner view of things, as if he coincided with the arrangements of Providence. Don’t you take coffee? Tea, then. I have met your aunt--I mean Mr. Lavender’s aunt; such a dear old lady she is.” “I don’t like her,” said Sheila. “Oh, don’t you really?” “Not at present, but I shall try to like her.” “Well,” said Mrs. Lorraine, calmly, “you know she has her peculiarities. I wish she wouldn’t talk so much about Marcus Antoninus and doses of medicine. I fancy I smell calomel when she comes near. I suppose if she were in a pantomime, they’d dress her up as a phial, tie a string around her neck and label her ‘POISON.’ Dear me, how languid one gets in this climate! Let us sit down. I wish I was as strong as mamma.” They sat down together, and Mrs. Lorraine evidently expected to be petted and made much of by her new companion. She gave herself pretty little airs and graces, and said no more cutting things about anybody. And Sheila somehow found herself being drawn to the girl, so that she could scarcely help taking her hand, and saying how sorry she was to see her so pale and fine and delicate. The hand, too, was so small that the tiny white fingers seemed scarcely bigger than the claws of a bird. Was not that slender waist, to which some little attention was called by a belt of bold blue, just a little too slender for health, although the bust and shoulders were exquisitely and finely proportioned? “We were at the Academy all the morning, and mamma is not a bit tired. Why has not Mr. Lavender anything at the Academy? Oh, I forgot,” she added, with a smile. “Of course, he has been very much engaged. But now I suppose he will settle down to work.” Sheila wished that this fragile-looking girl would not so continually refer to her husband, but how was any one to find fault with her when she put a little air of plaintiveness into the ordinarily cold gray eyes, and looked at her small hand as much as to say, “The fingers there are very small, and even whiter than the glove that covers them. They are the fingers of a child, who ought to be petted.”