The distinguished personages mentioned by Mrs. Heckfield proved propitious, with the exception of Sir Alan Byway, whose place was filled, though most inadequately filled, by a young shy lordling, who was at a private tutor’s in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Heckfield preferred him, on account of his name, to the Indian friend Dolby, whom Colonel Heckfield, on the secession of the loquacious traveller, made another attempt to insert. The eventful day arrived. Mrs. Heckfield, in her secret soul, was in a great fuss, though she maintained a tolerably placid exterior; she was so afraid, after all her pains to exclude any unworthy guests, that the party might prove dull, or not _bien assorti_. Colonel Heckfield was really composed and easy: he did not like seeking great people, but, if they fell in his way, they did not annoy him. The place, though small, was pretty; the house was _bien montée_; there was nothing to be ashamed of, and he did not see how it could much signify whether one, out of the many pleasant, cheerful dinners, which had taken place under his hospitable roof, proved, or did not prove, the quintessence of perfection. Not so Mrs. Heckfield. She had settled that, on the impression made that day, depended the future fate of Lucy. When she let herself alone, she was a pleasing, popular woman; but on this occasion, she wished to be more elegant and well-bred than usual. Mrs. Haughtville being rather deaf, could not hear a word she said; and, as Mrs. Heckfield would not commit the vulgarity of speaking loud, every word they addressed to each other, might have figured very well in the game of cross questions and crooked answers. Lady Bodlington was a good-humoured very insipid little woman! Lord Bodlington the most common-place man imaginable. Mr. Lyon was an empty dandy, and he was unfortunately seated next to Miss Pennefeather, whom he regarded with horror, fear, detestation, and contempt, as a blue—and, worse than all, a country blue! Miss Pennefeather, in a yellow toque and red gown, sate up, waiting to be drawn out—but—she waited in vain. The fashionably low tone of voice in which the mistress of the mansion spoke, and her studied desire to be perfectly well-bred, communicated a _gêne_ and formality to the whole party, which, re-acting upon the suffering hostess, would have made the evening one of unmitigated pain to herself, and of unmitigated bore to her company, if Lord Montreville’s tact and good breeding had not come to the relief of all parties.