Leila was on her mettle that night, and achieved a notable success. How she shone! Even Sir Richard was amazed--he was proud of, and not a little afraid of, his clever niece; as for Mr. Kesters, he watched her furtively, noted her upright grace, her animation, her delightful smile, her art of saying the right thing--and saying it well--her insidious dexterity in leading the conversation into interesting channels, yet never obtruding her own personality. It was _not_ the excellence of the champagne that made every one at the table feel themselves unusually shining and brilliant. No, poor souls! they were but the pale reflection of this luminous star. Then the girl’s appearance--she was a girl to his fifty-six years--of superb health and vitality. What an inmate for a dull, drab home--what a stimulating companion for a lonely man! It was a cosy little party of eight, and at a sign from the hostess, three matrons arose and preceded her up to the ghostly drawing-room, there to feel depressingly flat and to sip very superior coffee. After some devastating comments on the British climate and the British domestic, two of the quartette retired, whispering, to a sofa, in order to discuss a cure--leaving Miss Wynyard and Lady Billing _tête-à-tête_. “This room is rather a dreadful specimen of Early Victorian,” said Leila, waving an apologetic spoon. “I fought so hard for these loose chintz covers and lamp-shades; but everything else is as it was in grandmamma’s time--there she is, between the windows, in yellow satin and ringlets! The venerable servants who still survive will not hear of a change. Do look at the carpet; it must be fifty years of age. How old things _wear_!” “I wonder Sir Richard does not live in a flat near his club,” suggested her ladyship in diamonds and velvet; “so much more comfortable and up-to-date.” “Yes; but then this is the family town house, and he is never quite sure that he won’t marry.” “Marry!” repeated Lady Billing, “what an idea!” “It is his favourite threat”--and Leila laughed--“if the cooking is bad, the coal indifferent, or the servants too autocratic.” “But isn’t your brother his heir?” opening her eyes to their widest extent. “How would he like that?” “Oh, I really don’t think Owen would care a straw; he is rather happy-go-lucky, and never thinks of the future. After all, Uncle Dick is not an old man, and I don’t see why he should not please himself. I may dance at his wedding yet!” “I suppose there is no particular lady in the case?” inquired the other judicially. Miss Wynyard smiled, and shook her head. “Do you know, my dear, that you have made an important conquest this evening?” Then, in answer to Miss Wynyard’s gaze of amazement, “Mr. Kesters,” she added, with impressive solemnity. “Mr.--_Kesters_?” repeated Leila. “Your neighbour at dinner, you know. He was simply swept off his feet--any one could see that!” and she flourished a puffy hand.