“Oh I hate travelling!” said Lord Lambeth’s sister, who transferred her attention to Mrs. Westgate. “My son tells me you’re going to Branches,” the Duchess presently resumed. “Lord Lambeth has been so good as to ask us,” said Mrs. Westgate, who felt herself now under the eyes of both visitors and who had her customary happy consciousness of a distinguished appearance. The only mitigation of her felicity on this point was that, having taken in every item of that of the Duchess, she said to herself: “She won’t know how well I’m dressed!” “He has been so good as to tell me he expects me, but I’m not quite sure of what I can do,” the noble lady exhaled. “He had offered us the p—the prospect of meeting you,” Mrs. Westgate further contributed. “I hate the country at this season,” the Duchess went on. Her hostess melted to sweetness. “I delight in it at all seasons. And I think it now above all pleasanter than London.” But the Duchess’s eyes were absent again; she was looking very fixedly at Bessie. In a minute she slowly rose, passed across the room with a great rustle and an effect of momentous displacement, reached a chair that stood empty at the girl’s right hand and silently seated herself. As she was a majestic voluminous woman this little transaction had inevitably an air of somewhat impressive intention. It diffused a certain awkwardness, which Lady Pimlico, as a sympathetic daughter, perhaps desired to rectify in turning to Mrs. Westgate. “I suppose you go out immensely.” “No, very little. We’re strangers, and we didn’t come for the local society.” “I see,” said Lady Pimlico. “It’s rather nice in town just now.” “I’ve known it of course duskier and dingier. But we only go to see a few people,” Mrs. Westgate added—“old friends or persons we particularly like.” “Of course one can’t like every one,” Lady Pimlico conceded. “It depends on one’s society,” Mrs. Westgate returned. The Duchess meanwhile had addressed herself to Bessie. “My son tells me the young ladies in America are so clever.” “I’m glad they made so good an impression on him,” our heroine smiled. The Duchess took the case, clearly, as no matter for grimacing; there reigned in her large pink face a meridian calm. “He’s very susceptible. He thinks every one clever—and sometimes they are.” “Sometimes,” Bessie cheerfully assented. The Duchess continued all serenely and publicly to appraise her. “Lambeth’s very susceptible, but he’s very volatile too.” “Volatile?” Bessie echoed. “He’s very inconstant. It won’t do to depend on him.” “Ah,” the girl returned, “I don’t recognise that description. We’ve depended on him greatly, my sister and I, and have found him so faithful. He has never disappointed us.” “He’ll disappoint you yet,” said her Grace with a certain rich force. Bessie gave a laugh of amusement as at such a contention from such a quarter. “I suppose it will depend on what we expect of him.”