"My dear fellow," expostulates Lord Alfred, shifting his glass from one eye to the other and looking palpably amused, "there is no reason in the world why you should be grumpy because you are in love with the girl. _I_ don't want to interfere with you." "In love!" says Branscombe. "Nonsense! I never spoke a word to her in my life." "Well, it is uncommon like it," says Lord Alfred. "Is it? Well, I can't help that, you know. Nevertheless, I am not in love with any one." "Then you ought to take that look off your face," persists his lordship, calmly. "I'll take off anything you like," replies Dorian? somewhat nettled. At this, Lord Alfred laughs beneath his breath, and tells him he will not keep him to this rash promise, as probably the Pullingham folk, being pre-Adamites, might object to the literal fulfilment of it. "But she is a very lovely girl, and I don't wonder at your infatuation," he says, mildly. "Foregone conclusions seem to be in your line," returns Dorian, with a shrug. "It seems a useless thing to tell you again I have _not_ lost my heart to Miss Broughton." "Oh, so you have remembered her name!" says his lordship, dryly. Meantime, the concert has reasserted itself, and things once more are going on smoothly. The vicar, all smiles and sunshine, is going about accepting congratulations on all sides. "Such a _charming_ evening," says Mrs. Grey; "and _such_ music! Really, London could not surpass it. And what a delicious face that girl has got--like Spring, or May, or--er----Morning, or that. I quite envy her to you. Now all _my_ governesses are so unpleasant,--freckled, you know, or with a squint, or a crooked nose, or that. Some people have _all_ the luck in this world," winds up Mrs. Grey, with a gentle sigh, who has ten thousand a year and no earthly care, and who always speaks in italics whenever she gets the slightest chance. "So glad you are pleased," says the vicar, genially. "Yes, she is as beautiful as her voice. After all, I think the concert will prove a success." "It _has_ proved itself one," says Mrs. Grey, who adores the vicar, and would flirt with him if she dared. "But when do you fail in anything you undertake? Really, dear Mr. Redmond, you should not let the idea die out. You should give us a good time like this at least once in every month, and than see what _delicious_ windows you could have. I for one"--coquettishly--"will promise to come to _every_ one of them." "At that rate, I should soon have no poor to look after," says the gratified vicar, gayly. "And a good thing, too. The poor are always so oppressive, and--er--so _dirty_, but still"--seeing a change in his face--"_very_ interesting,--_very_!" And then the concert comes to an end, and adieux are said, and fresh congratulations poured out, so to speak, upon the Redmonds; and then every one goes home.