“You never seem able to go to concerts. It is quite sad and wicked,” Ethel said brightly. He looked up as if he liked her. “Not often. Perhaps some day if you would honour me, only I am not a cousin; still I have passed the giddy age of Mr. Dighton.” “We will, we will,” she laughed, and nodded; “but relations only are able to survive the responsibility of taking me about alone. Perhaps Mrs. Hibbert would——” “Ah yes, Mr. Wimple,” they heard Mrs. Baines say, “I have good reason to know Sir William Rammage. He is my own cousin, though for years and years we had not met till we did so a few months since, when I came to take up my residence in London.” The old lady’s mouth twitched nervously, the sad note of a week ago made itself heard in her voice again. Mrs. Hibbert knew that she was thinking of the unsuccessful appeal to her rich relation, and of the port wine that had always proved pernicious to her digestion. “Your cousin!” said Mr. Wimple, and he fixed another long, steady gaze upon Mrs. Baines, “that is very interesting;” and he was silent. “Cousins seem to abound in our conversation this evening,” Miss Dunlop said to Mr. Fisher; “it must be terrible to be cousin to the Lord Mayor.” “Like being related to Gog and Magog,” he whispered. “Even worse,” she answered, pretending to shudder. But Mrs. Hibbert was looking at Aunt Anne, for it was time to go upstairs. Mrs. Baines went out of the door with a stateliness that was downright courage, considering how small and slight she was. Ethel Dunlop, standing aside to let her pass, looked at her admiringly, but the old lady gave her back, with the left eye, a momentary glance that was merely condescending. Unless Aunt Anne took a fancy to people, or made a point of being agreeable, she was apt to be condescending. Her manner to young people was sometimes impatient, and to servants it was generally irritating. She had taken a dislike to Miss Dunlop—she considered her forward. She did not like the manner in which she did her hair. She was of opinion that her dress was unbecoming. All these things had determined Mrs. Baines to snub Miss Dunlop, who ill deserved it, for she was a pretty, motherless girl of one-and-twenty, very anxious to do right and to find the world a pleasant dwelling-place. The old lady sat down on the yellow couch in the drawing-room again, the same couch on which, a fortnight before, she had sat and related her misfortunes. But it was difficult to believe that she was the same person. Her dress was spread out; her gloves were drawn on and carefully buttoned; she opened and shut a small black fan; she looked round the drawing-room with an air of condescension, and almost sternly refused coffee with a “not any, I thank you,” that made the servant feel rebuked for having offered it. Mrs. Hibbert and Ethel felt that she was indeed mistress of the situation. “You are musical, I think, Miss Dunlop,” she asked coldly.