"They are going to sing again," she says, in a tone she seldom uses to him: "we must not talk, you know." She had some faint idea of introducing him to Georgie, but she abandons it, and gives him to understand that she has at present nothing more to say to him. Whether he quite comprehends all she intends to convey, I know not; but, raising himself slowly from his lounging position on the back of her chair, he takes a last look at Georgie's profile, and moves into the background. "Good-evening, Branscombe," says Lord Alfred, presently; and Dorian, finding himself beside him, returns the greeting, and props himself up in his turn against the friendly wall, that shows its appreciation of them by giving them finely whitewashed coats. The concert is getting on swimmingly. As yet no flaw has occurred to mark the brilliancy of its success. The opening chorus has been applauded to the echo, especially by Lord Alfred, who feels it his duty to do something, and who keeps on applauding, in the most open-hearted manner each thing and everything, until he discovers he has split his right glove all up the palm, when he caves in, and, having said something impossible, puts his hands behind his back and refuses to applaud again. Lady Mary has come forward, and entreated her audience to "Love not," in the faintest and most plaintive of voices. The county is delighted with her, and smiles unrestrainedly behind its fans. "Dear Lady Mary is _so_ funny, don't you know," says Miss Grey of Greymount, in an indescribable tone. Then comes a solo on the violin, that charms all the back benches, and reduces the farmers' wives and daughters to tears, as it tells them how that the poor player's "lodging is on the cold ground." Lord Alfred, who has not yet recovered his temper, says this is "disgusting," and "wonders what the--so-and-so--brought him here at all." "I suppose the night brougham," says Dorian, equably, who is now engaged in a minute examination of Miss Broughton's head, round which her soft yellow hair is twisted in a loose artistic coil. He is in quite a happy mood, if somewhat silent, and says the solo isn't half bad; and now Mr. Hastings, the curate, reads something from the "Ingoldsby Legends," that seems to displease Cissy Redmond extremely, as she will not lift her head during the reading, or even look at him, and expresses herself as quite charmed when it is at an end. And now comes the event of the evening,--the thing that is to convince the county of the necessity for a good organ, and to show them the rare excellence of the Pullingham choir. Sarah Martin, the leading soprano--all muslin and blue bows--comes forward, and begins the solo upon which all the vicar's hopes are centred. "The shades of night are falling fast." begins Sarah, nobly, and goes on in a hopeful manner to the end of the first verse. The vicar draws a deep sigh of relief! "His brow was sad, his eye beneath,"