Before she had ceased speaking, Mrs Edgerley was at the other end of the room, conversing with some one else, by her pretty gestures. Sir Langham Portland drew himself up like a guardsman, as he was, on the other side of Marian, and made original remarks about the picture-books, somewhat to the amusement, but more to the dismay of the young beauty, unaccustomed to such distinguished attentions. Mr Agar occupied himself with Agnes; he told her all about the Willows, Mrs Edgerley’s pretty house at Richmond, which was always amusing, said the old gentleman. He was very pleasantly amused himself with Agnes’s bright respondent face, which, however, this wicked old critic was fully better pleased with while its mortification and disappointment lasted. Mr Endicott remained standing in front of the group, watching the splendid guardsman with a misanthropic eye. This, however, was not very amusing; and the enlightened American gracefully took from his pocket the daintiest of pocket-books, fragrant with Russia leather and clasped with gold. From this delicate enclosure Mr Endicott selected with care a letter and a card, and, armed with these formidable implements, turned round upon the unconscious old gentleman. When Mr Agar caught a glimpse of this impending assault, his momentary look of dismay would have delighted himself, could he have seen it. “I have the honour of bearing a letter of introduction,” said Mr Endicott, closing upon the unfortunate connoisseur, and thrusting before his eyes the weapons of offence--the moral bowie-knife and revolver, which were the weapons of this young gentleman’s warfare. Mr Agar looked his assailant in the face, but did not put forth his hand. “At my own house,” said the ancient beau, with a gracious smile: “who could be stoic enough to do justice to the most distinguished of strangers, under such irresistible distractions as I find here?” Poor Mr Endicott! He did not venture to be offended, but he was extinguished notwithstanding, and could not make head against his double disappointment; for there stood the guardsman speaking through his mustache of Books of Beauty, and holding his place like the most faithful of sentinels by Marian Atheling’s side. CHAPTER XXVIII. A FOE. “I shall have to relinquish my charge of you,” said the young chaperone, for the first time addressing Agnes. Agnes started immediately, and rose. “It is time for us to go,” she said with eager shyness, “but I did not like. May we follow you? If it would not trouble you, it would be a great kindness, for we know no one here.” “Why did you come, then?” said the lady. Agnes’s ideas of politeness were sorely tried to-night. “Indeed,” said the young author, with a sudden blush and courage, “I cannot tell why, unless because Mrs Edgerley asked us; but I am sure it was very foolish, and we will know better another time.”