He had returned home after luncheon, leaving the shooting party under the charge of Captain Bligh, and had been in a state of undisguisable anxiety all the afternoon, unable to settle himself to anything; now playing a stroke or two at billiards, and looking on at Tom Charteris, who was practising certain hazards preparatory to a match with Bligh; now strolling through the drawing-room, where Alsager was talking to Lady Mitford and Mrs. Masters; now interrupting Lord Dollamore, who was stretched out in an easy-chair in the library reading Montaigne. Sir Charles's impatience and restlessness was not unobserved by any of these. Tom Charteris supposed he was already sick of the quiet of the country, and contemplated recommending him a turn in the distillery by way of a cure. Lady Mitford could not understand his restlessness, and feared Charley had been annoyed about something. Mrs. Masters ascribed it to want of _savoir faire_ on the Baronet's part, Only Colonel Alsager and Lord Dollamore guessed its real cause. The former frowned portentously as he watched his host; and the latter vas considerably amused. "This is positively a very delicious experience of life," thought Dollamore, as he laid aside his book; "I could not have had a more charming field for study. So many different characters too! There is that remarkably uncouth person our host, who is so horribly raw and undisciplined as to be unable to behave himself decently when expecting the last object of his calf-love, And there's that modern Bayard, Alsager, who has undoubtedly a _tendresse_ for our hostess, and who as undeniably wore Laura Hammond's colours a little time ago, and bolted because of some inexplicable row with her. And there's Laura Hammond herself--delicious creature--with a newly-caught mouse in her mouth; and yet her eye constantly roving over the late captive playing round her, lest he should escape beyond possibility of recapture. There's that good-looking widow, too, who is as cold as ice, but who is supposed to have thawed a little once in Bayard's favour. And then there's Lady Mitford herself, who is worth all the rest of the women put together. What grace, what beauty, what thoroughly unsophisticated charms and real naturalness of manner! By Jove! compared to her, the widow is a giraffe, and the Hammond a dairy-maid. Talk of their birth and breeding! why this country-parson's daughter has the air and manner of a duchess. They will try and set upon her when she comes to town,--that old Clanronald, who looks like a cook, and the Tappington with her three daughters like grenadiers in petticoats; but if she has any pluck--and I think she has, under all that quietude--she'll ride them down right and left; and she'll have all the men on her side, though I don't know that that's any pull. Meantime this oaf is entertaining an angel unawares, and neglecting her,--is standing at the door of his tent ogling the daughters of the Cities of the Plain.