‘Come sa di sale Lo pan altrui, com’ è duro calle, Lo scender, e ’l salir per l’altrui scale.’” Miss Pennefeather was poor, and her friends were extremely kind in frequently inviting her to stay at their houses, where she appeared to enjoy herself exceedingly, and gave no signs of sympathising with Dante. “What did she say?” asked Mrs. Haughtville. “Something about salt bread, and its being very hard to go up and down stairs,” answered the good-humoured Lady Bodlington. “Oh!” said Mrs. Haughtville. Miss Pennefeather cast a glance of contempt at the high-born pair, and relapsed into a dignified silence. Coffee came: that was a real blessing. Tea succeeded, which was some comfort. Mrs. Heckfield’s eyes turned frequently and more frequently towards the door; still the gentlemen came not. In her despair she bade Lucy give them a little music. “You are fond of music, I believe, Lady Bodlington?” “Oh, yes! passionately fond of music!” answered Lady Bodlington, with a suppressed yawn, and poor Lucy seated herself at the pianoforte. She had a pretty voice, but she was very much frightened. Miss Pennefeather was a critic, and Mrs. Haughtville looked so cold. Lady Bodlington she did not mind—she seemed good-natured, and the circumstance of her being a viscountess, had not the same effect on Lucy’s nerves as on her mother’s. She did her best, and Lady Bodlington, with a sweet smile, thanked her for that pretty Spanish air. “It is German!” said Lucy, with the _naïveté_ of youth; and both felt uncomfortable. Lady Bodlington, at having made a wrong hit, Lucy, at not having pronounced her words more distinctly. Lady Bodlington should have known better than to utter any phrase of commendation which committed her, as to the language in which a young lady’s song is couched. Lucy should have known better than to set her right, when she had made the mistake. “If Miss Pennefeather would favour us!” humbly suggested Mrs. Heckfield: “One of your own unique compositions, my dear Miss Pennefeather. Miss Pennefeather composes words, and music, and all, Mrs. Haughtville, and they are the sweetest things!” This account of Miss Pennefeather’s multifarious talents excited a slight emotion of curiosity in Mrs. Haughtville’s mind, and she accordingly begged Miss Pennefeather to grant their request. Lady Bodlington was very anxious indeed; and the poetess, whose pride, though easily wounded, was, through the medium of her vanity, as easily soothed, found the two fine ladies were more intellectual, and consequently more worthy of the efforts of her genius, than she had at first imagined.