'It was dreadfully dull there at first, and I thought I should have died of it. I quite longed to be at home again. Howel was a great deal out, and I was alone; but then he gave me a singing master, and a French and dancing mistress, and made me work as hard as if I was at school again. In about a month Captain Dancy and Mr Simpson came over, and it was much more pleasant. We used to go to the opera and the play nearly every night, and Captain Dancy introduced me to Madame Duvet, and she introduced me to a great many other ladies, English and French, and we had a good deal of fun. I went to balls and parties, and picture galleries, and the Champs Elysees, and all the fashionable places.' 'But where did Howel meet with Mr Deep?' interrupted Owen. 'Oh! he used to be with him from the first. They are very old friends, Howel says, and have known one another for years; he is a very fashionable man, an attorney by profession. Simpson says that the races couldn't go on without him.' 'I should think not,' said Owen, smiling; 'at all events, Mr Simpson's races would be at a stand still without him. Did you, did Howel play much abroad?' 'Yes, I learned from Madame Duvet? and I think Howel and Mr Deep and the other gentlemen used to play all day. You know they have nothing else to do in Paris. It would be very dull there without cards.' 'Poor Netta! is that what you learned with your little bit of French?' 'I assure you, Owen, Monsieur Letellier and a dozen other Frenchmen said I had a beautiful accent, and that they would have thought I was born in Paris.' Owen laughed heartily, and Netta was offended, and told him to go away. Just as he was in the act of obeying, Howel appeared. 'What! not up, Netta? How's the head? Owen, there's a letter for you. Llanfach post-mark, and from a lady? such a neat, pretty, ladylike hand! How sly you are to have lady correspondents, and not let us know who the charmer is!' 'Let me see the direction,' said Netta, trying to get the letter from her brother. 'No, no,' said Owen. 'I must keep my secret for the present when it is all settled you shall know.' 'It makes you blush, however,' laughed Howel. 'Is it Mary Jones, or Anne Jenkins, or Amelia Lewis, or Miss Richards, doctor, or Jemima Thomas--or--or--perhaps it is Gladys. Ha, ha! do you know, Howel, Owen's last is mother's Irish girl, Gladys?' 'Really?' sneered Howel. 'My mother tells me that she ran away from Glanyravon, and report says with somebody we know of. But report was false as usual; and she turns up again as Miss Gwynne's lady's maid. Miss Gwynne is about as eccentric as the rest of the clique, and I wish her joy of her bargain. The girl is a beauty, certainly, but--' 'Hush, Howel!' cried Netta; 'Owen was nearly boxing my ears about her just now.'