Helen Vavasour is at the piano, and close to her side, on a low chair, placed so that his head almost touches her shoulder, sits Alan Wyverne. He has behaved perfectly to-day, never attempting to monopolize his _fiancée_, not even securing a place near her when she came out to meet the shooting-party at luncheon; apparently he thinks he has a right to indemnify himself for a brief space now. It is rather a brilliant piece she is playing, but not so difficult as to interfere with a murmured conversation, evidently very pleasant and interesting to both parties. The Squire and the Rector are playing their everlasting piquet, which has been going on for nearly a score of years, and is still undecided. It is a very good match, and both are fair players, though each is disposed privately to undervalue his adversary's science, characterizing him as "the best card-holder in Europe." The great difference is that Vavasour looks at a bad hand with a cheerful unconcern, whereas Geoffry Knowles knits his brow, and bites his lip, when luck is running against him, and has never learnt to dissemble his discontent or discomfiture. Lady Mildred is reclining on her own peculiar sofa, and, on a stool close to her elbow, lounges Bertie Grenvil--better known as "The Cherub" in half the fast coteries of London, and throughout the Household Brigade. It is a very fair face to look upon, shaded by masses of soft, sunny silken hair, and lighted up by large, eloquent eyes of the darkest blue. It would be almost faultless, were it not for the extreme effeminacy, which the delicately trained moustache fails to redeem. He is one of "my lady's" prime favourites; she has assisted him ere this with her countenance and counsel, when such help was sorely needed; for it is a wild, wicked little creature--reckless and enterprising as Richelieu in his pagehood--always gambling and love-making, in places where he has no earthly business to risk his money or his heart. With those smooth pink-and-white cheeks, and plaintive manner, and innocent ways of his, The Cherub has done more mischief already than a dozen years of perpetual penance could atone for. At this moment he is confiding to "my lady" the hopes and fears of his last _passion malheureuse_, suppressing carefully the name of the object--a very superfluous precaution, for Lady Mildred has guessed it long ago, and can afford to be amused--innocently. She knows, what Bertie does not wot of, that his pursuit will be absolutely _theoretical_ and fruitless. Very near them, lounges Max Vavasour. He looks up, ever and anon, from that eternal _novelette_, and as his eye meets his mother's, a quick glance of intelligence passes between them. It is more than probable that he has been, told off for "interior and picket duty" this evening, but the time for action has not yet come.