She followed a more sensible English fashion in having two most beautiful girls among her children. Cicely and Charlotte, the two eldest, were tall, fair as lilies, limpid-eyed, small-mouthed, innocent, sweet and rather silly. Dressed as they were on this evening in white muslin dresses, which looked to masculine eyes as if they might have been made by the wearers themselves, though they were in reality a triumph of a Bond Street milliner, they made the dull minutes before dinner interesting by their mere physical loveliness. Unfortunately for her, fortunately perhaps for them, the youngest of the three girls was a foil, not an addition to the family beauty. Small, sallow, and plain, Ella Millard did not attempt to make up for her deficiency in good looks by any special attraction of manner. To most people she seemed shy, abrupt, and almost repellent; such a contrast, as everybody said, to her charming and amiable sisters. But with the minority for whom fools, however beautiful, have no charm, Ella was the favourite; and George Lauriston, an _habitué_ of the house, had got into the habit of making straight for the chair by her side at every opportunity, with the distinct conviction that she was an awfully nice girl. On this occasion he took in to dinner the second sister, Charlotte, and he found that her placid, amiable face and wearisome gabble about the Opera, the Academy, and Marion Crawford’s new novel--(Charlotte prided herself on having plenty to say)--irritated him to a degree he had never before thought himself capable of reaching. When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room after dinner, George Lauriston, seeing Ella in a corner by herself, made at once for the seat by her side. She made way for him almost without looking up, as if she had expected him. “How cross you looked at dinner,” she said; “I was glad you took Charlotte in and not me.” “No, you were not. If I had taken you I should not have been cross.” “That is quite true. Charlotte is sweet-tempered and will put up with a man’s moods; I should have turned my back upon you and let you sulk.” “Yes; you are a hard, disagreeable creature.” “But such a relief after my poor Charlotte. Now tell me what is the matter with you.” “Nothing except ill-temper. At least--to say the truth, I hardly can tell you.” “Nonsense. You can tell me anything, after the stream of nonsense I have heard at different times from you.” “But this isn’t nonsense. Lord Florencecourt wants me to marry one of your sisters.” “Well, I dare say you could get one of them to have you, if I backed you up. You see I am so out of the running that they think a good deal of my advice.” “Don’t tease. He really has set his heart upon it.”