"Every one likes Dorian," says Clarissa, pleasantly, but without her usual warmth when speaking of Branscombe. "He is a general favorite, and I think he knows it. He is like a spoiled child; he says what he likes to everyone, but nobody takes anything he says _seriously_." This friendly hint is utterly thrown away. Miss Broughton understands it not at all. "Yet sometimes he looks quite grave," she says,--"nearly as grave as Mr. Hastings when in his surplice, only not so solemn. That is all the difference." "I like Mr. Hastings in his surplice," says Clarissa; "I think him very handsome: don't you?" "Well--yes--. Only I wish his ears didn't stick out so much. Why do they? He always, somehow, makes me think of Midas." "But you like him," persists Clarissa, feeling, however, a little crestfallen. It doesn't sound promising, this allusion to Mr. Hastings's ears. "Ever so much," says Georgie, enthusiastically; "and really, you know, he can't help his ears. After all, how much worse a crooked eye would be!" "Of course. And his eyes are really beautiful." "You are not in love with him, are you?" says Miss Georgie, with an amused laugh; and again Clarissa's hopes sink to zero. "No. But I am glad you are a friend of his. Does he--like you?" "Yes, I think so: I am sure of it. Clarissa,"--with hesitation,--"if I tell you something, will you promise me faithfully not to tell it again?" "I promise faithfully, darling, if you wish it." "It is something Mr. Hastings said to me last night, and though I was not told in words to keep it secret, still I think he would wish me to be silent about it for--for a while. There can't be any harm in confiding it to you, can there? You are such an old friend of both." "Not the slightest harm," says Miss Peyton, with conviction. Woman-like, she is burning with curiosity. Not for an instant does she doubt that one of her greatest wishes is about to be fulfilled: Mr. Hastings, who has a small though not insignificant income of his own, independent of the Church, is about to marry her dearest Georgie. "Her dearest Georgie," raising herself a little from her recumbent position, leans her arm upon Clarissa's knee, and looks up into her face: there is importance largely mingled with delight in her fair features. "Well, then," she says, slowly, as though loath to part all at once with her treasured news, "last night--he told me--that he--was in love!" "Did he?"--with suppressed excitement. "And--and you--what did you say?" "I didn't say much," says Miss Broughton, regretfully. "I might have said a great deal more, something kinder, more encouraging, you know; but I was so surprised and so----" "Pleased?"--tenderly. "Pleased! I should think so," with so much _empressement_ that even Clarissa is taken aback. "I was never so delighted in my life, only, as I said before, a little confused, and couldn't think of anything pretty to say."