The message came along a beam of light, and that little bright beam stretched from Cynthia Mallow's eye to that of the speaker; and the message was,-- "_You dear stupid old goose, why don't you come_?" For Artingale had held rather aloof until the fair young hostesses had withdrawn. "Why didn't you come before, sir?" said the lady, looking very severely at her swain. "I was afraid," he said. "What, of me, sir?" "No, no," he whispered, "I've been longing to get near you, but I dared not. Oh, my little darling, how beautiful you look to-night." "For shame, Harry; now look here, sir; I will not permit you to be so familiar. The idea of addressing me in such a strain." "There," he sighed, "now you are getting on stilts again, and we were so happy down at Lawford." "Yes, but that's country, and this is town. We are in society now, sir, and we must be very proper." "There, my beautiful little tyrant," he whispered, "I am your slave. I won't rebel; only reward me sometimes for my patience with a kindly look." "Well, if you are very good, perhaps I will," said Cynthia. "But you did not tell me, Harry, why you were afraid. Ah, that's right, that tall thin ghost is going to sing, so we can talk." In effect, a very cadaverous-looking lady, with an exceedingly startled air, was led by Mr Perry-Morton to the piano, and after he had screwed his eyes up, glanced round the room, and held up a white finger to command silence, the thin lady, who evidently purposely lived upon an unwholesome regimen, to keep herself graceful, fixed her eyes upon one particular piece of blue china near the corner of the room, and began to sing. "Now, sir," whispered Cynthia, "you must not speak loud. Tell me quietly." "May I sit down?" "If that is enough room for you, sir. Now go on." Artingale would have thought the edge of a knife room enough, so that he could be near Cynthia, so he sat down in a very uncomfortable position, and received such a merry, mischievous look that he sighed with content. "The fact is--oh, murder!" "Hush, Harry! What is the matter?" "Would it look rude if I were to cork my ears with glove-fingers, Cynthy?" "Of course, sir! For shame! You have no soul for music." "Not a bit," he whispered; "only when you warble one of those little ballads of yours, I shut my eyes and wish you were a brook." "Wish I were a what, you foolish boy?" whispered Cynthia, looking up at the great _boy_ who towered over her. "A brook, my darling, to go on for ever," he whispered back so earnestly, that Cynthia felt a little thrill of pleasure run through her, and her pretty face became slightly suffused. "Now you are talking nonsense again," she said. "Oh. I do wish that dreadful romance would end. Harry, if you speak to me again like that, I shall send you away. Now, sir, why were you frightened? Did I look so fierce and majestic?" "No: only more beautiful than ever." "Harry!"