In vain was Seymour Delafield attentive, polite, and even particularly so. That devotedness of admiration for which so many sighed, and which so many envied, was entirely thrown away upon Charlotte. She listened, she bowed, and she smiled--and, sometimes, she answered; but it was evidently without meaning or interest, until, wearied with his fruitless efforts to make an impression, and perhaps with a hope of exciting a little jealousy, he turned his attention to her more lively companion. "Your mother's nursery, Miss Osgood," he cried, "ought on such an occasion to be tenantless." "You think there are enough of us here to make it so," returned the lady, with an affected sigh. "I really had not observed the number of your charming family--how many are there of you?" "A baker's dozen." Charlotte laughed, and the youth felt mortified. The laugh was natural, and clearly extorted, without a thought of himself. "When you are all married," he said, "you will form a little world in yourselves." "When the sky falls we shall catch larks." "Surely, you intend to marry?" Maria made no reply, but turned her eyes on Delafield, with an affected expression of melancholy that excited another laugh in her friend. "You certainly have made no rash vow on the subject," continued Seymour, pretending to a slight interest in her answer. "My troth is not yet plighted," said the lady, a little archly. "But there is no telling how long it will continue so." "I am afraid so--thirteen is a dreadful divisor for a small family estate." A general movement in the party was gladly seized by Charlotte as an excuse to go, and Delafield handed her to her carriage, with the mortifying conviction that she was utterly indifferent to every thing but the civility of the act. CHAPTER III.