Wynne, whose presence on the occasion Miss Selina attributed solely to her own attractions. She was fourteen years older than him, but what of that? He was old for his age, and she was young for hers. She flattered herself that in a becoming dress, by lamplight, or behind a spotted veil, she did not look a day more than seven and twenty. By all accounts Mr. Wynne was a briefless barrister (but then Selina’s share of the family stocking was by no means contemptible), he had the reputation of being clever, and would “get on” of course. The Wolfertons declared that he was highly thought of as a rising man, and of fine old family--but poor. Strange that he should come to the breaking-up this year too--“made quite a point of it,” Amy Wolferton had whispered, and Amy had looked as if she would have liked to have added more. As he pressed her hand, and she glanced at him from under her scanty eyelashes, a delicious conviction assured Miss Selina that he had not forgotten her--their charming walk from church, or the little picnic party, at which he had sat beside her, and when the second supply of plates had failed, and with regard to the remains of some cold chicken, said in the most marked manner, “Miss Selina, will you permit me to lay my bones beside yours?” What was this but a proposal? Certainly in a novel form, unquestionably it meant that they would share the same grave. It was a distinct invitation to the family vault of the blue-blooded Wynnes. How agreeable he was--these barristers always were! How good-looking! What a contrast to Mr. Murphy, the red-haired Irish curate, on whom, with his loud, rich brogue, her sister Letitia had built her hopes matrimonial (N. B. and it had been building on a quicksand), casting a contemptuous glance at the well-oiled red head to her left.