Lady Mary goes on to the platform; Lady Patricia sinks into a front seat specially provided for her, whilst Lord Alfred, their brother,--who has been inveigled into coming, sorely against his will,--having conversed with Lady Patricia for a few minutes, and told her several lies about the arrangements for the evening,--not intentionally, but through ignorance, being under the false impression that a concert in a village is the same as a concert in town,--goes over to one side of the building, and plants himself listlessly with his back against a wall, from which position he gazes in a gloomy fashion at everything in general, but Miss Broughton in particular. Then comes everybody, and makes a great fuss about its place,--Clarissa Peyton and her father excepted, who go straight to where Georgie is sitting, and stay with her all the evening. Dorian Branscombe, who has come down expressly for the concert, at great trouble to himself, and simply to oblige the vicar, saunters leisurely up the room towards the middle of the evening, and looks round him dubiously, as though uncertain where to put in his time. Seeing Clarissa, he goes up to her, and, with a faint sigh of relief, leans over the back of her chair and says, "Good-evening," in a languid tone. "Ah! you, Dorian?" says Clarissa, very pleased. "Now, it _is_ good of you to come." "I'm always good," says Dorian. "I'm a model boy. It is so strange that people won't recognize the fact. They sort of give me to understand I'm quite the other thing, whatever that may be. Very full house, don't you think, and awfully swagger? What's Lady Patricia got on her? She is slightly terrifying, don't you think?" "She isn't very well got up, certainly," says Clarissa, reluctantly. "She's anyhow," says Mr. Branscombe, freely; and then his eyes fall upon Georgie, who is gazing, in her rapt, childish fashion, at the singer of the moment; and then he doesn't speak again for a little while. "Is Horace quite well?" asks Clarissa, presently. "Quite well. He always is, you know. Who----who is the girl next your father?" "That is my friend, Georgie Broughton. I think I told you about her. She is governess at the vicarage, now. Is she not lovely,--quite sweet?" asks Clarissa, eagerly. But Mr. Branscombe does not answer her. He is still staring at the unconscious Georgie, and seems almost deaf to Clarissa's praise of her. At this Miss Peyton is somewhat disgusted, and declines any further attempt at laudation. "A governess!" he says, at length, raising his brows, but without removing his eyes from the fair and perfect face that, even now, he tells himself, is without its equal. "Yes. She is none the less sweet for that," says Clarissa, rather coldly. She tells herself it is unlike Dorian to look down upon any one because he or she may be in a worse position than his own.