Lucy acquiesced, though she did not exactly see why Ashdale Park should be open to so many slight acquaintances, and yet that a visit from her parents should be so difficult of accomplishment. She was also somewhat appalled at the idea of this clever, exclusive Duchess, whom she should have to entertain herself, for no one whom Lord Montreville thought worthy of meeting her could be found on such short notice. Lucy was sure she should dislike her; she was angry with her for, as she thought, keeping away her own family, and she determined to bear patiently the infliction of her presence for the few days she remained, and never to seek her any more. She was free from the vulgar awe which simple rank inspires to the _parvenu_, though she was not free from the _gêne_ which most people feel when in company with persons who are wedded to their own set, and who do not give themselves any trouble to please those who are not of it. The day arrived, and Lucy, who was not constitutionally shy, and had now become perfectly at her ease in the discharge of her every-day hostess duties, awaited with composure the entry of the disagreeable Duchess. She was rather surprised when a little, quiet, middle-aged woman, in a close bonnet, and a black cloak, slid into the room, followed by a large, gaunt, lordly-looking man. Lord Montreville was not present. Lucy rose to receive them; the Duchess introduced herself and the Duke, in a gentle, kind, frank manner. They sat down, and the Duchess being very cold drew her chair close to the fire, put her feet upon the fender, and dropped out little natural sentences, which half amused, half pleased Lucy, and before they went to dress for dinner she felt more intimate with the dreaded Duchess than with any of the other people who had yet been her inmates at Ashdale Park. At dinner Lord Montreville was in his most agreeable vein; the Duchess was charming, so unaffected, so straightforward, and, withal, there was something singular and original in her turn of thought, with a graceful _bonhommie_ which was peculiar to herself. The Duke was a sensible, hard-headed, high-minded man, silent in large society, but conversable enough in small ones. Lucy was interested and amused all the time, and would have talked more than she did, but that she liked to listen to the Duchess, and to watch the pleasing expression of her countenance, and the wonderful manner in which, without youth, features, or complexion, it lighted up into something more attractive than beauty. Upon further acquaintance she found her as good as she was fascinating. She spoke of her married daughters, of her grand-children, of her home, her garden, her son, and his wife and children, who lived at Altonworth, when in the country; of her school, of the poor people, and Lucy perceived that, in fact, her heart was so completely filled with the near and dear charities of life, that it was not strange she had no inclination to seek for other objects in the world.