Mrs. Langrishe was not behindhand with her plaudits. She would not leave it in any one’s power to declare that she was jealous of Miss Gordon’s overwhelming success, but to herself she said-- “Oh, if Honor Gordon was but _her_ niece! How thankfully would she exchange relations with Mrs. Brande. Here was a simple, well-bred girl, who could shine anywhere, and was quite thrown away in her present hands. It was true that Sir Gloster seemed much struck; everyone saw _that_, except the girl herself, and her old bat of an aunt. He had never taken his eyes off her, as she stood before the footlights, and she had made an undeniably charming picture, slim and graceful, with an old-fashioned air of maidenly dignity, and _how_ she played!” She glanced at her own special young lady, now coming forward to sing yet another ditty, amidst the uproarious encouragement of the back benches. Lalla was pretty, her fair soft hair was wisped up anyhow (a studied art), her eyes were bright, her style _piquante_, but her expression was everything, and oh, what a little demon she was! And then she sang--certainly she was the most successful cantatrice who ever sang without a voice. “What a charming inmate your niece must be, Mrs. Langrishe,” observed a lady next her. “So amusing and bright, quite a _sunbeam_ in the house.” To which the poor martyr rejoined with a somewhat rigid smile, “Oh yes, indeed, quite delightful.” She envied Mrs. Brande her treasure still more, when, as they were leaving the club, she noticed Honor affectionately wrapping up her aunt--for it had turned out a wet night--and making some playful joke as she tied a hood under her ample chin. _Her_ niece had helped herself to the only mackintosh, and had rolled away in her rickshaw, among the first flight, with a young man riding beside her. “She went off with Toby Joy! I really am astonished that Mrs. Langrishe allows her to be so independent,” said a voice (a woman’s) in the dark, close beside that ill-used lady, and happily unaware of her vicinity. Miserable Mrs. Langrishe, if they only knew _all_, the most stony-hearted would surely commiserate her. She returned home alone, firmly resolved to give Lalla a talking to, but when she arrived--her anger had ebbed. She discovered the culprit reclining in an easy-chair, smoking a friendly cigarette with Granby, and entertaining him with inimitable mimicry of some of her fellow performers. “Oh, so you have appeared at last!” cried Lalla, with languid surprise. “Fie, fie, how late you are, darling! _I’ve_ been home ages. I took the waterproof to cover up my beloved banjo--I ‘wrapped it up in its tarpaulin jacket,’ you know the song. I was sure, as I did not see you, that some horrible bore had got hold of you, and I knew you would _hate_ to keep me waiting in the rain, so I dashed off home at once.” CHAPTER XXI. THE GREAT STARVATION PICNIC.