Verona's friends had never struck her as particularly humorous. Possibly Mrs. Barwell thought them "funny," because they had never cultivated her acquaintance in former days, when she was Miss Snoad. "By-the-way, what a wretched match Margery made!" "Oh, no!" protested her friend, "she is extremely happy." "But he had scarcely a penny besides his pay, and that girl had the advantage of the very best county society. What _is_ the good of county society, and being exclusive, if you can't do better than that? Of course, she was no beauty; indeed, for my part, I always thought her very plain." During the conversation Dominga sat aloof, totally unabashed by her icy reception, and stared round the room exhaustively. It resembled its mistress--it was cheap and showy, not dark and gloomy, with heavy hangings and solid furniture, like the drawing-room at Manora, but light and gay. The walls were coloured bright green, and covered with large fans and small mirrors; quantities of wickerwork chairs were dressed in gaudy flounced cretonne. Over the floor were scattered numbers of deer-skins, mounted on red flannel. Whilst her sister and Mrs. Barwell talked of home, Dominga presently rose from her seat, strolled around examining the photographs and ornaments, as calmly and critically as if they were so many lots at auction. Meanwhile Mrs. Barwell followed her movements with angry eyes. Just at this moment two ladies were ushered in, Mrs. Palgrave and Miss Richards, the Colonel's wife and sister. Mrs. Palgrave was tall and slight; her face was rather plain, but animated, and she had a charming smile. Her sister was a handsome, bright-looking girl of about five-and-twenty. They were both remarkably well dressed, and appeared to be in the highest spirits. Mrs. Barwell received them effusively, but did not attempt to present the other ladies. Her slight civility to Verona had now become congealed. "So you have just come from the rehearsal?" she began, making room for Mrs. Palgrave beside her. "Yes, we are quite worn out with our exertions, at least, Dolly is. I am merely chaperone, critic, peacemaker, and prompter." "How are you getting on?" turning to Miss Richards. "Only pretty well. Mrs. Norton and Mrs. Long have been squabbling, and Captain Prescott has thrown up his part. He won't act; I cannot imagine why he is so cross." "But I know," said Mrs. Palgrave, with a laugh. "It is his liver. Whenever he has a touch of liver, he always becomes argumentative and cynical, and says no woman under forty is worth speaking to." "Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mrs. Barwell, "then there is no one to suit him here--we are all too juvenile." "Like Baby Charles, such a dear boy, who is acting with me," said Miss Richards. "He is so young, and so pleased with everything--hockey, cricket, racquets; he really should have a child's part." "And what _is_ his part?" asked Mrs. Barwell. "Oh, he is my _fiancé_, but he can't make love a bit--although he is _in_ love."