“Dear me! How very delightful! What a thing it is to be so clever!” exclaimed Miss Singleton, arranging her bracelet and rounding her arm (which was now one of her best points) with an action that expressed, as plainly as words could have done, “There, look at that--there’s grace for you!” “Here comes some one who can tell us everything,” she continued; “that good-natured, fascinating Mr. Leicester, with his loves of whiskers all in dear little curls. Tiresome man! he won’t look this way. Would you be so very good, Mr. Arundel, as to follow him and bring him here? Say that Miss Peyton and I want him particularly.” “I beg you’ll say nothing of the kind, Mr. Arundel,” interposed Laura quickly, with a very becoming blush. “Really, Miss Singleton, you run on so that----” “I will deliver your message verbatim, Miss Singleton,” returned Lewis with the same demure tone and manner in which Miss Peyton had referred to the Persian prince; and without waiting to mark the effect of his words, he mingled with the crowd, and almost immediately returned with the gentleman in pursuit of whom he had been despatched. Charles Leicester, who was most elaborately got up for the occasion, though his good taste prevented him from running into any absurd extremes in dress, looked remarkably handsome, and being flattered by the summons he had just received, particularly happy. Both these facts Miss Peyton discovered at a glance, but whether urged by some secret consciousness, or annoyed by an indescribable look of intelligence which lurked in the corners of Lewis’s dark eyes and revealed itself through the sternness of his compressed lips, she received him with marked coldness, and observed, in reply to his offer to play showman to the collection of strange animals there assembled, that she had no taste for zoology, and that it was Miss Singleton’s curiosity he had been summoned to satisfy. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Leicester,” exclaimed that mature damsel, in no way daunted by a shade of discontent which, despite his endeavours to the contrary, overspread the countenance of the gentleman she was addressing; “yes, indeed, I’m dying to know all sorts of things. In the first place, who’s that tall, stout gentleman in the wonderful waistcoat?” “That,” replied Leicester, coolly examining the person indicated, “that is--no, it isn’t! Yes, surely!--I thought I was right--that is the Marquis of Carabbas.” Then seeing from her manner she did not recognise the name, he continued, “He has enormous estates situated in----” “Where?” asked Miss Singleton earnestly, thinking she had lost the name. “That interesting tract of country yclept, by John Parry, the Realms of Infantine Romance,” continued Leicester. “Oh, Mr. Leicester, you’re laughing at me. How wicked of you--the Marquis of Carabbas! Let me see: hadn’t he something to do with Whittington and his Cat?”