"Well, really," says Mrs. Darley, with a pretty childish laugh which she rather cultivates, being under the impression that it is fascinating to the last degree, "asking me so suddenly puts the precise day I was born out of my head. I hardly remember--exactly--when----" Conversation has died. Every one's attention is fixed; by experience they know the end is nigh. "Just so; I don't suppose you could, it happened such a long time ago!" says this terrible old man, with an audible chuckle, that falls upon a silent and (must it be said?) appreciative audience. Mrs. Darley says no more; what is there left to say? and conversation is once more taken up, and flows on as smoothly as it can, when everybody else is talking for a purpose. "_Is_ she old?" Molly asks Philip, presently, in a low tone, when the buzz is at its highest; "very old, I mean? She looks so babyish." "How old would you say?" speaking in the same guarded tone as her own, which has the effect of making Luttrell and Marcia believe them deep in a growing flirtation. "About twenty-two or three." "She does it uncommonly well then," says Philip, regarding Mrs. Darley with much admiration,--"uncommonly well; her maid must be a treasure." "But why? Is she older than that?" "I don't know, I am sure," says Philip, unkindly, with an amused smile. "She used to be my age, but I haven't the faintest idea in the world what she is--now!" After one or two more playful sallies on the part of their host,--for having once found his tongue he takes very good care to use it, and appears fatally bent on making his hearers well aware of its restoration,--the ladies adjourn to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Darley instantly retires behind her handkerchief and gives way to a gentle sob. "That detestable old man!" she says, viciously; "how I hate him! What have I done, that he should treat me with such exceeding rudeness? One would think I was as old as--as--Methuselah! Not that his mentioning my age puts me out in the least,--why should it?--only his manner is so offensive!" And as she finishes she rolls up the corners of her handkerchief into a little point, and carefully picks out, one by one, the two tears that adorn her eyes, lest by any chance they should escape, and, running down her cheeks, destroy the evening's painting. "Don't distress yourself about it, Maud," says Lady Stafford, kindly, although strongly divided between pity for the angry Maud and a growing desire to laugh; "nobody minds him: you know we all suffer in turn. Something tells me it will be my turn next, and then you will indeed see a noble example of fortitude under affliction." There is no time for more; the door opens and the men come in, more speedily to-night than is their wont, no doubt driven thereto by the amiability of Mr. Amherst.