'I never knew you so figurative before. Sir Hugh.' 'Don't pay any attention to him, Miss Gwynne,' said a fresh addition to the circle that stood round that young lady's chair. 'He means that old Griffey Jenkins, the miser, is dead, and that Howel comes into all his immense wealth.' Miss Gwynne gave her head such a magnificent toss that her neck looked quite strained. 'I do not imagine many _young ladies_ will purchase tickets in that lottery,' she said, with a stress upon the 'young ladies.' 'I have no doubt there are dozens who would, and will, do it at once,' responded Sir Hugh. 'And quite right too. Such a fortune is not to be had every day.' 'But it is gentlemen, and not ladies, who are fortune-hunters,' said Miss Gwynne, changing her tone, when she suddenly perceived that Netta's face and neck were crimson. But the subject was become quite an interesting piece of local gossip, and, one after another, all the party joined in it. 'Howel Jenkins might make anything of himself if he would but be steady,' said Mr Rice Rice. 'Except a gentleman by birth,' said his lady. 'Or the least bit of an archaeologist,' said Mr Jonathan Prothero. 'I tried one day--you will scarcely believe it, Mr Gwynne--to make him understand that Garn Goch was an old British encampment, but he would not take it in.' 'Ah, really; I do not very much wonder myself, for I cannot quite "take in" those heaps of stones and all that sort of thing,' responded the host. 'What can they find to interest them in that sort of person?' asked Lady Mary in an aside to Mr Gwynne. Miss Gwynne overheard it, and answered for her father. 'He is a young man of great talent, very rich, very handsome, and has had a miser for a father. Is not that the case Mr Rowland?' 'I--I--really, it is scarcely fair to appeal to me, as he is a relation.' 'And do you never say a good word in favour of your relations?' 'I hope so, when they deserve it,' said Rowland resolutely, glancing at his sister, who was biting her glove. 'If I may be allowed an opinion,' said Mrs Jonathan decidedly, also glancing at poor Netta, 'I should say that Howel Jenkins was a complete scapegrace. What he may yet turn out remains to be proved.' 'Well, that is putting an end to him at once,' said Miss Gwynne, 'and I think we had better play his funeral dirge. Lady Mary, will you give us 'The Dead March in Saul,' or something appropriate? Never mind, Netta; I daresay cousin Howel will turn out a great man by-and-by;' this last clause was whispered to Netta, whilst the young hostess went towards a grand piano that stood invitingly open, and begged Lady Mary Nugent to give them some music. That lady played some brilliant waltzes, after which, her daughter accompanied her in the small bass of a duet. 'Pon my soul, that's a pretty girl, that little Prothero!' said Sir Hugh Pryse to young Rice Rice. 'I never saw such a complexion in my life. Roses and carnations are nothing to it.'