There was a great party in Miss Lawrence's, I knew it from the corner of the square; and I had to leave the lustrous darkness, the sleepy stars and great suffusing moonshine, the very streets filled full and overflowing with waftures of fragrances from the country, dim yet so delicious, for that terrible drawing-room. I took advantage of the excitement, however, that distressed me as it never burned before, to plunge instantly into a duet for violin and piano; Miss Lawrence calling me to her by the white spell of her waving hand the very moment I entered at the drawing-room door. My duet, her noble playing, made me myself, _as ever music saves her own_, and I conducted myself rather less like a nightmare than I felt. The party consisted of first-rate amateurs, the flower of the morning festival, both from orchestra and audience,--all enchanted, all wordy, except my precious Davy, who was very pale, and Starwood, whose eyes almost went into his head with pain. We all did our best, though. Starwood played most beautifully, and in a style which made me glory over him. Davy sang, though his voice was rather nervous. A great many people came up to me, but they got nothing out of me. I could not descant upon my religion. When at length they descended to supper,--a miscellaneous meal, which Miss Lawrence always provided in great state,--I thought I might be permitted to retire. Will it be believed that, half an hour afterwards, hearing my sister and Davy come up leisurely to bed, and peeping out to see them, I heard Millicent distinctly say, "I hope baby is asleep"? I was to return with them on the morrow; but directly after breakfast Miss Lawrence made me one of her signs, and led me thereby, without controlling me hand or foot, out of the breakfast-room. We were soon alone together in the studio. "I thought you would like to be here this morning, for Seraphael has promised to come and see it. I think myself that he will be rather surprised." I could not help smiling at her tone, it was so unaffectedly satisfied. "I should think he will, Miss Lawrence." "I don't mean as to the merits of the picture, but because he does not know it is--what shall I say?--historical, biographical, allegorical." "You mean hieroglyphic?" "Exactly." "But he will not be likely to say anything about that part of it, will he? Is he not too modest or too proud?" "Why, one never can know what he can say or do. I should not wonder the least in the world if he took the brushes up and put the eyes in open." I laughed. "Does he paint, though?"