“Yes; it all depends on himself now,” replied Lord Culloden, with a grim smile; “and I hope he will not make a fool of himself.” “What have you got for us to-night?” inquired Lothair of Mr. Giles, as the gentlemen rose from the dining-table. Mr. Giles said he would consult his wife, but Lothair observing he would himself undertake that office, when he entered the saloon, addressed Apollonia. Nothing could be more skilful than the manner in which Mrs. Giles, in this party, assumed precisely the position which equally became her and suited her own views; at the same time the somewhat humble friend, but the trusted counsellor, of the Towers, she disarmed envy and conciliated consideration. Never obtrusive, yet always prompt and prepared with unfailing resource, and gifted apparently, with universal talents, she soon became the recognized medium by which every thing was suggested or arranged; and before eight-and-forty hours had passed she was described by duchesses and their daughters as that “dear Mrs. Giles.” “Monsieur Raphael and his sister came down in the train with us,” said Mrs. Giles to Lothair; “the rest of the troupe will not be here until to-morrow; but they told me they could give you a perfect proverbe if your lordship would like it; and the Spanish conjuror is here; but I rather think, from what I gather, that the young ladies would like a dance.” “I do not much fancy acting the moment these great churchmen have arrived, and with cardinals and bishops I would rather not have dances the first-night. I almost wish we had kept the Hungarian lady for this evening.” “Shall I send for her? She is ready.” “The repetition would be too soon, and would show a great poverty of resources,” said Lothair, smiling; “what we want is some singing.” “Mardoni ought to have been here to-day,” said Mrs. Giles; “but he never keeps his engagements.” “I think our amateur materials are rather rich,” said Lothair. “There is Mrs. Campian,” said Apollonia in a low voice; but Lothair shook his head. “But, perhaps, if others set her the example,” he added, after a pause; “Lady Corisande is first rate, and all her sisters sing; I will go and consult the duchess.” There was soon a stir in the room. Lady St. Aldegonde and her sisters approached the piano, at which was seated the eminent professor. A note was heard, and there was silence. The execution was exquisite; and, indeed, there are few things more dainty than the blended voices of three women. No one seemed to appreciate the performance more than Mrs. Campian, who, greatly attracted by what was taking place, turned a careless ear, even to the honeyed sentences of no less a personage than the lord-bishop.