It is a very strange thing to mark how certain men, trained and inured to emergencies of no mean order--the lawyer and the doctor, for instance--who can await with unshaken courage the moment in which duty will summon them to efforts on whose issue another’s life is hanging,--I say, it is a strange thing to mark how such men are unnerved and flurried by that small by-play of society which fine ladies go through without a sensation or an emotion. The little commonplace, attentions, the weak flatteries, the small coquetteries that are the every-day incidents of such a sphere, strike them as all full of a direct application, a peculiar significance, when addressed to themselves; and thus was it Mr. M’Kinlay issued forth, imbued with a strong conviction that he had just taken leave of a charming family, endowed with many graceful gifts, amongst which conspicuously shone the discernment they showed in understanding himself. “I see it,” muttered he below his breath--“I see it before me. There will come a day when I shall cross this threshold on still safer grounds. When Sir Gervais will be Vyner, and even----” “I trust I have not kept you waiting?” said the very sweetest of voices, as Miss Courtenay, drawing her shawl around her, came forward. “I sincerely hope I have not perilled your journey; but I went to fetch you a rose. Here it is. Is it not pretty? They are the true Japanese roses, but they have no odour.” Mr. M’Kinlay was in ecstasy; he declared that the flower was perfection; there never was such grace of outline, such delicacy of colouring, such elegance of form; and he protested that there was a faint, a very faint, but delicious perfume also. Georgina laughed, one of those sweet-ringing little laughs beauties practise--just as great pianists do those seemingly hap-hazard chords they throw off, as in careless mood they find themselves before a piano--and they now walked along, side by side, towards the gate. “You don’t know in what a position of difficulty my indiscretion of yesterday evening has placed me, Miss Courtenay,” said he. “Here has been Sir Gervais enjoining me to the strictest secresy.” “You may trust me to the fullest extent; and tell me, what was your business with Lutrell?” “You shall know all. Indeed, I have no desire to keep secrets from you.” It was somewhat of a hazardous speech, particularly in the way it was uttered; but she received it with a very sweet smile, and he went on: “My journey had for its object to see this Mr. Luttrell, and induce him to accept a trusteeship to a deed.” “For this child?” “Yes; the same.” “But she is his daughter, is she not?” “No; he had but one child, the boy I spoke of.” “Who told you so? Luttrell himself, perhaps, or some of his people. At all events, do you believe it?”