"And you are going to remain with us a week--I mean, all the time _my_ reign lasts here?" asked Lady Lysson, gliding to a sofa beside his stool. "There, sit down, Mr. Tremenhere, and let us have a little pleasant vision of bygone days in sweet Florence--and how goes on your painting? Are you very successful in town? You deserve to be so; and--and--by the way, some old friends of your's are staying here--have you seen them? Lady Ripley and her daughter. Is not that Lady Dora by the fire? Lady Dora, my dear," and she gracefully waved her little hand--raising her voice at the same time, "come here; here's an old friend of yours, whom you will be delighted to meet again. For shame--for shame!" she added, tapping his arm with her fan, "to bring our horrible English coldness into my nephew's house. I, who am trying to banish it for ever from our else unparalleled homes, and make all cordial in meeting--regretful in parting--and not afraid to express these feelings, as in the sweet South; and here I find one of my pet _protégés_ crumbling my efforts to dust, and sitting cold and English on his stool of formality, at the extreme end of my own court, and kind friends in the distance--for shame! Dear Lady Dora, help me to scold this refractory subject." Lady Dora was compelled to obey the summons; to do otherwise, would be to betray herself. She rose; but the proud lip was compressed--the nostril dilated with annoyance. "I have spoken to Mr. Tremenhere," she said, in as indifferent a tone as she could command, and she seated herself on the sofa beside Lady Lysson. Tremenhere bowed--he could scarcely conceal a smile of satisfaction. Every triumph to himself, was one to his little wife--his ever present magnet. "I have had the pleasure of standing beside Lady Dora Vaughan's music-stool while she drew forth some of the sweet strains she so well commands at will," he said. Lady Dora fixed her haughty eyes upon him undauntedly, to read the epigram, if one were intended--but he looked upon her with a cordial, friendly smile. "He is no fool," she thought--"is he impervious to every attack? I _hate_ this man," she could not think even; "I despise him." "Then, you wretches!" continued Lady Lysson, "why did you not take some of the weight of a hostess' burthen off my shoulders, and enliven the dreadful half-hour before dinner with some music? Mr. Tremenhere, I command you to take me back to sweet Florence on one of those melodies none can sing like yourself."