It occurs to me that she might be even gracious enough to smile in my direction, but she confines her attentions entirely to Marmaduke. Has any one else in the room noticed her insolence. There is rather a hush I fancy, as I move composedly to my seat and alter the cups and saucers into more regular rows, I wonder curiously whether Marmaduke has remarked her breach of etiquette. Not he! What man ever saw anything wrong where a pretty woman is the transgressor, more especially when that pretty woman's blandishments are directed towards him? He gives back her smile placidly, and then speaks,--- "I believe we have decided on a picnic." "The picnic, of course. But _where?_ That is the question." "Anywhere you like; I am yours to command." "You really mean it? Then I should like to go right through the country to St. Seebird's Well. It is years since last I was there." She breathes a soft sigh, as though recalling some tender memory connected with her former visit. "To the Wishing Well?" says 'Duke. "That is a long drive. The day is fine, however, and I see nothing to prevent our doing it. Can we manage it, do you think, Phyllis?" "I see no obstacle in the way," I answer, indifferently, without raising my eyes. "Then we may consider it a settled plan--may we, Mrs. Carrington?" says Lady Blanche, sweetly. This time I do lift my head, and turn my eyes slowly upon her ladyship's. "Good-morning, Lady Blanche," I say, quietly, and with the utmost composure. In spite of herself, she is disconcerted. "Oh! good-morning," she says. "I quite fancied I had seen you somewhere before this morning." "Did you? You take coffee, I think, Sir George? Dora, give Sir George some coffee." "I think I deserve a vote of thanks for my suggestion." says Lady Blanche, recovering. "I feel in great spirits myself already. The drive will do us good, and make us all as fresh as possible." "True," says Marmaduke; "we have not had a drive for some time. A picnic near home is, I believe, a mistake. It is a capital idea, Phyllis, is it not?" He addresses himself to me in a rather anxious, not to gay conciliatory, tone: for the first time he becomes aware of my unusual silence. "Excellent. Though for my part I hardly require a drive as a tonic. I am always as fresh as I can be." (I cannot resist this one little thrust.) "Mr Thornton,"--to Chips, who has just entered--"come and sit here by me: there is no more room." For the first time in my life I feel my youth an advantage as I watch the faint color rise to her ladyship's cheeks. Her mouth changes its expression. It is no longer complacent. At this moment I feel she hates me with a bitter hatred, and am partly comforted. A brief smile quivers beneath Sir Mark's moustache; it is scarcely there when it is gone again, and he drops his eyes discreetly on his plate. "How shall we go?" asks 'Duke. "We have the coach, and your trap, Ashurst, and the open carriage: will that be enough? Harriet, what will suit you?"