"Yes, of course; beg pardon, I'm shaw," said the baronet hastily, and he crossed the room with her ladyship in a weak-kneed fashion, and apparently suffering from tight boots. But it so happened that a flank movement had been set on foot by Viscount Diphoos. "Charley, old man," he was saying to the visitor with the fair beard, who now, as he stood in one of the windows, showed himself to be a fine, broad-shouldered fellow of about eight or nine and twenty, with a fair Saxon forehead half-way down to his brows, where it became ruddily tanned, as if by exposure to the air. "Charley, old man, go across and nail Maude at once, or the old lady will be handing her over to that wretched screw, Wilters.--Have you seen Tryphie?" "There she is, over in the far corner, talking to the doctor," said the young man addressed--a bosom friend of the viscount: Charley Melton, the son of a country gentleman with a very small income and no prospects, unless a cousin in the navy should kindly leave this world in his favour, when he would be heir to a title and a goodly domain. He crossed the room quickly to where Lady Maude was standing, and a curious, conscious look appeared on the girl's face as he approached. There was a warm rosy hue in her cheeks as their eyes met, and then, happy and palpitating, she let her little fingers press very timidly the strong muscular arm that held them to the side within which beat--beat-- beat, rather faster than usual, Charley Melton's heart, a habit it had had of late when fortune had thrown him close to his companion. Her ladyship saw the movement as she was approaching with Sir Grantley Wilters, and darted an angry look at her daughter and another at her son. Then, with her face all smiles, she brought up her light cavalry and took her son in the flank in his turn. "So sorry, Sir Grantley," she said sweetly; "we were too late. Will you take down my niece?" "Yas, delighted," said Sir Grantley, screwing the whole of his face up till it formed a series of concentric circles round his eye-glass. "But who is that fellow?" "Friend of my son," said her ladyship in the most confidential way. "Very nice manly fellow, and that sort of thing. Tryphie, my dear, Sir Grantley Wilters will take you down," she continued, as she stopped before a little piquante, creamy-skinned girl with large hazel eyes, abundant dark-brown hair, and a saucy-looking little mouth. She had a well-shaped nose, but her face was freckled as liberally as nature could arrange it without making the markings touch: but all the same she was remarkably bright and pretty.