A very nice man sat next me to-day; he reminded me of the old generals at Branches. We had quite a war of wits, and it stimulated me. He told me, among other things, when he discovered who I was, that he had known papa--papa was in the same Guards with him--and that he was the best-looking man of his day. Numbers of women were in love with him, he said, but he was a faithless being, and rode away. "He probably enjoyed himself--don't you think so?--and he had the good luck to die in his zenith," I said. "He was once engaged to Lady Merrenden, you know. She was Lady Sophia Vavasour then, and absolutely devoted to him, but Mrs. Carruthers came between them and carried him off--she was years older than he was, too, and as clever as paint." "Poor papa seems to have been a weak creature, I fear." "All men are weak," he said. "And then he married and left Mrs. Carruthers, I suppose?" I asked. I wanted to hear as much as I could. "Ye-e-s," said my old colonel. "I was best man at the wedding." "And what was she like, my mamma?" "She was the loveliest creature I ever saw," he said--"as lovely as you, only you are the image of your father, all but the hair--his was fair." "No one has ever said I was lovely before. Oh, I am so glad if you think so," I said. It did please me. I have often been told I am attractive and extraordinary, and wonderful and divine, but never just lovely. He would not say any more about my parents, except that they hadn't a sou to live on, and were not very happy--Mrs. Carruthers took care of that. Then, as every one was going, he said: "I am awfully glad to have met you. We must be pals, for the sake of old times," and he gave me his card for me to keep his address, and told me if ever I wanted a friend to send him a line--Colonel Tom Carden, The Albany. I promised I would. "You might give me away at my wedding," I said, gayly. "I am thinking of getting married, some day!" "That I will," he promised; "and, by Jove! the man will be a fortunate fellow." Lady Ver and I drove after luncheon--me paid some calls, and went in to tea with the Montgomeries, who had just arrived at Brown's Hotel for a week's shopping. "Aunt Katherine brings those poor girls up always at this time, and takes them to some impossible old dressmaker of her own in the daytime, and to Shakespeare or a concert at night, and returns with them equipped in more hideous garments each year. It is positively cruel," said Lady Ver, as we went up the stairs to their _appartement_. There they were, sitting round the tea-table just as at Tryland--Kirstie and Jean embroidering and knitting, and the other two reading new catalogues of books for their work. Lady Ver began to tease them. She asked them all sorts of questions about their new frocks, and suggested they had better go to Paris once in a way. Lady Katherine was like ice. She strongly disapproved of my being with her niece, one could see.