But Lydia Gleed--it should have been Languish--was a more modern type. She was frankly interested in the affair. It had given quite a zest to what would otherwise have been an insufferably dull month for Lydia. The girl had the makings of a perfect woman of society, and yet the end of her second season found her still an unknown distance from the first step to the realisation of that ideal. Proposals she had received, but none such as an heiress of her calibre was entitled to expect. She had actually been engaged to an adventurer; but that had only retarded matters. There may have been purer causes. Feeble and inanimate in her every-day life, and constitutionally bored by the familiar, Miss Gleed kept her best side for those whom she knew least; could chatter to acquaintances, the newer the better; was in her element at parties, and out of it at home. Even in her element, however, Lydia never forgot to conceal as much of her appreciation as possible, and would dance angelically with the corners of her mouth turned down, and take like medicine the wine which really did make glad her heart. This August she was feeling particularly _blasée_ and dissatisfied; and the romantic downfall of the rector--whose sermons had kept her awake--was a French novel without the trouble of reading it or the risk of confiscation. To-night, therefore, it was Lydia who invited Gwynneth to play, and pressed the invitation with a compliment; it was her commoner practice to snub the much younger girl. And it was Lydia who drew her chair close to that of Lady Gleed, and began the whispering, to which Gwynneth was made to shut her ears with all ten fingers. Yet for once Lady Gleed was frankly interested herself. "But what _has_ he done?" The music had stopped. They had not noticed it. The ungrown girl was standing in the middle of the room. She was dressed in white, and her face looked as white in the candle-light, but her eyes and hair the darker and more brilliant by contrast. And the eyes were great with a pity and a pain which were at least not less than the natural curiosity of a healthy child. "Mind your own business," said Lydia, bluntly. But even as she spoke the door opened. "What's this? What's this?" cried Sir Wilton, who was beaming, and good-naturedly concerned to see the tears starting to his brother's child's eyes. "Whose business have you been minding, little woman?" "It was about Mr. Carlton," the child said with a sob. "I hear everybody saying nothing's bad enough for him--nothing--and I thought he was so good! I only asked what he had done. I won't again. Please--please let me go!" "In an instant," said Sir Wilton, detaining her with familiarity. "You mustn't be a little goose." "Let her go, Wilton," whispered his wife. "Not till I've told her what Mr. Carlton has done!" And Sir Wilton Gleed beamed more than ever upon the consternation of his ladies. "But, Wilton----"