"Now, look at that tree," breaks in Amy, hurriedly, feeling it is honestly her turn now, and fearing lest Ethel shall cut in before her. "King Charles the Second spent the whole of one night in that identical tree." "Not the whole of it," puts in Ethel, unwisely. "Now, I suppose this is my story, at all events," declares Amy, angrily, "and I shall just tell it as I like." "Poor King Charles!" says Georgie, with a laugh, "If we are to believe all the stories we hear, half his lifetime must have been spent 'up a tree.'" A stone balcony runs before the front of the house. On it stands Clarissa, as they approach, but, seeing them, she runs down the steps and advances eagerly to meet them. "Come in," she says. "How late you are! I thought you had proved faithless and were not coming at all." "Ah! what a lovely hall!" says Georgie, as they enter, stopping in a childishly delighted fashion to gaze round her. "It's nothing to the drawing-room: that is the most beautiful room in the world," says the irrepressible Amy, who is in her glory, and who, having secured the unwilling but thoroughly polite Bill, is holding him in her arms and devouring him with unwelcome kisses. "You shall see the whole house, presently," says Clarissa to Georgie, "including the room I hold in reserve for you when these children have driven you to desperation." "That will be never," declares Amy, giving a final kiss to the exhausted Billy. "We like her far too much, and always will, I know, because nothing on earth could make me afraid of her!" At this they all laugh. Georgie, I think, blushes a little; but even the thought that she is not exactly all she ought to be as an orthodox governess cannot control her sense of the ludicrous. "Cissy, when is your father's concert to come off?" asks Clarissa, presently. "At once, I think. The old organ is unendurable. I do hope it will be a success, as he has set his heart on getting a new one. But it is so hard to make people attend. They will pay for their tickets, but they won't come. And, after all, what the--the _others_ like, is to see the county." "Get Dorian Branscombe to help you. Nobody ever refuses him anything." "Who is Dorian Branscombe?" asks Georgie, indifferently, more from want of something to say than an actual desire to know. "Dorian?" repeats Clarissa, as though surprised; and then, correcting herself with a start, "I thought every one knew Dorian. But I forgot, you are a stranger. He is a great friend of mine; he lives near this, and you must like him." "Every one likes him," says Cissy, cordially. "Lucky he," says Georgie. "Is he your lover, Clarissa?" "Oh, no,"--with a soft blush, born of the thought that if he is not the rose he is very near to it. "He is only my friend, and a nephew of Lord Sartoris." "So great as that?"--with a faint grimace. "You crush me. I suppose he will hardly deign to look at _me_?"