Mrs. Somerton and her daughter now made their appearance; then some people who were entire strangers to Margaret; then Mr. Conway with his glass in his eye; and after him Hubert Gage and Mr. Haveloc. These last both made their way to Margaret at the same time. Mr. Haveloc merely made the usual enquiries about herself and her uncle, and then leaned against the mantle-piece in perfect silence. Hubert Gage had more to say. He had to describe his passage and his visit to Ireland, and all the things which happened on his return. He had to invent a storm, which made Margaret turn pale; and a variety of dialogues between the passengers upon their supposed danger, which set her laughing merrily. Blanche Somerton, who was sitting near, did not quite like this prolonged conversation. She turned round and summoned him to her side. "I am so sorry to trouble you, Mr. Hubert," she said, "but do look at my bouquet. I came away in such a hurry--see, it will not fit my bouquetière; the stalks are too long." "That is a difficulty very easy to remedy," said Hubert, taking the bouquet from her. "Now I wish young ladies were always as modest in their demands; they do ask one such impossible things sometimes." "No, but what sort of things?" asked Blanche. "Do tell me, I so long to know. I really believe that you are very severe upon women." "By no means. I am too sincere an admirer of the fair sex to be exacting. Stay, this is not quite right yet--let me shorten these stalks again." "You will spoil that nice penknife, I am afraid." "That is not of the slightest consequence," said he laughing, "particularly as it is not my property." "Then you mean to say that if it was yours--" "I should feel double pleasure in sacrificing it of course. Dinner already! Now you must take my arm, you see. I have not quite finished the arrangement of your flowers. It is certainly a beautiful bouquet. I hardly know which to admire most, the flowers or the bouquetière. Quite new this sort of thing--is it not?" Every body was rising and pairing off--Hubert Gage, with Blanche on his arm, sauntered past Margaret, arranging the bouquet as he walked along. Margaret looked after him with some surprise; his attendance had been a thing that she was so certain of late to meet with, that she could scarcely comprehend his transferring it to somebody else. There was a little mortification in her mind for a minute, for no one likes to be robbed of an admirer, however willing she may be to give him up. But she understood it in a moment. Love hangs on such a slender thread with every one, that she could never, and did never regard Hubert Gage with a warmer interest than what might belong to a pleasant acquaintance. She was too romantic, too exacting in her ideas of love to suppose, for a moment, that a man who once entertained a serious thought of her could be engrossed in her presence by another woman.