"It must be a matter of perfect indifference to Mr. Tremenhere;" and, ceasing her playing, she took her gloves, fan, and handkerchief from the piano, and without condescending to award him one look, walked majestically to the other end of the large room, and, seating herself on an ottoman by the fire, commenced conversing with the dowagers. Miles leaned an instant against the piano. A smile, half of contempt, and half triumph, played over his proud lip. Servants entered at that instant with lights. Quietly seating himself on the music-stool, he took up a book from a side table, and turned its leaves; but his thoughts flew off from pride and vexation to Minnie, his own quiet little cottage fireside, and that fairy wife, singing like a joyous bird, to soothe his weary spirit, when worn by a day's harassing. "Minnie--my own Minnie!" he whispered to his heart, and the dark flashing eyes of the previous moment, melted with the loving thoughts of her presence, and he forgot Lady Dora, all, save herself. CHAPTER XIX. With the lights a few stragglers came dropping in,--one of the first was Lady Lysson. This lady had much more of the foreigner than Englishwoman, in both mind and manner, having lived many years abroad, where in fact she had known Tremenhere, and was an ardent admirer of his genius. She had a hasty, but most graceful manner; youthfulness of movement, not at all unbecoming, though no longer young; at every step, every gesture, you involuntarily said to yourself, "What a very charming girl she must have been!" though really charming still, even at forty-five. Not the least attraction was a sweet, half-lisping, slightly foreign accent, perfectly natural; you felt that if she talked in her sleep, or walked, or laughed, she would do all just as in her waking moments. She now flitted into the room, and, spying a desolate-looking being on the music-stool, tripped towards it, and, half dazzled by the lights, shading her eyes with her hand, cried, "Who are you? what unfortunate Robinson Crusoe have we on this isle? what, Mr. Tremenhere! this is indeed an agreeable surprise; since when are you our guest?" "Since the last three hours, Lady Lysson," he replied cordially taking the proffered hand, and the heart was in the clasp, to thank the Samaritan who had not passed him by. Lady Dora coloured unseen, but it was shame; her own soul blushed for the weakness of its mould of clay, as she witnessed the generosity of another, and yet it was not all pride which dictated her conduct--an unknown, unacknowledged feeling prompted it.