“Of course you know the Treasures of the Deep? They tell me I have caught something of the inspired authoress’s expression.” Lord Montreville really trembled. He had heard it sung by the inspired authoress, and he hastened to avert the sacrilegious attempt, by begging for another of her own composition. Charmed and flattered, Miss Pennefeather again burst forth in a perfectly original piece, under cover of which Lord Montreville entered into a most agreeable conversation with Lucy. His dark, lively, expressive eyes, looked at her with so much consciousness of being understood, that she immediately felt quite intimate, and perfectly satisfied that he was as much amused as she was, by Miss Pennefeather’s exhibition. These looks of mutual intelligence and amusement prevented her feeling any awe of his age or his rank, while his very age made her feel perfectly safe and innocent in immediately giving in to the intimacy which so suddenly sprang up between them. Their communication did not confine itself to a little good-humoured ridicule of the self-constituted Corinne; he had the happy knack of leading the conversation to topics interesting to the individuals with whom he conversed; and Mrs. Heckfield overheard Lucy, in the fullness of her heart, giving a detailed account of the death of a Newfoundland puppy, which was supposed to have been bit by a mad dog! Mrs. Heckfield was in agonies: she looked unutterable things; but her looks were utterly thrown away. Lucy’s heart and soul were in her subject, and her eyes were sufficiently tearful to look very bright and melting. Lord Montreville thought this extremely countrified simplicity, charming, though he did not intend it should last for ever. He was himself a professed lover of animals, and he gave her, in return, an account of a horse who neighed when he came into the stable, and would put his nose into his pocket to find the bread he was in the habit of feeding him with. Lucy thought him the nicest, best-natured creature she had ever met with; and Mrs. Heckfield saw her, in the midst of his story, draw her chair nearer to him, her whole mind intent upon the sensible horse. Mrs. Heckfield thought, “How improper! how forward! how vulgar! What can ail Lucy to-night?” When the company dispersed, what was her horror to see Lucy put out her hand towards Lord Montreville, and shake hands with him cordially, heartily, and frankly; but her horror was mixed with astonishment, when Lord Montreville begged permission to call the next morning, as Miss Heckfield had promised to show him some beautiful puppies, and to allow him to select one, as he was a great dog-fancier. “What can be the meaning of this?” thought she, “he must be disgusted with Lucy’s manners to-day! They could not have been worse if Bell Stopford had been here!” When the last carriage had driven from the door, Mrs. Heckfield threw herself into a chair.