“‘I must inform you that your friend the Speaker, with all his outside gravity and demureness, is a jolly buck at bottom. He does not dislike the sight of a pretty woman, for such, _entre nous_, am I universally thought here, whatever I may be reckoned in England; but no prophet is a prophet in his own country. “‘I was much surprised as I was quietly seated one evening to feel myself pulled back in the chair by the shoulders, and, looking up, perceived it was the frisky Speaker’s doing, who vowed he had such an inclination to kiss me he could hardly withstand the longing he felt. Instead of looking grave, I burst out a-laughing, and indeed well I might when I saw that demure old face extended into a tender simper. “‘He afterwards confessed he repented not having gratified his kissing inclination, and assured me if I gave him any encouragement, he should certainly do it in spite of me. “‘Mrs. Perry was half inclined to look grave, and I to be much entertained. “‘Poor Sir John Irwin’s head is quite turned with his Mrs. Squib. He gets himself abused everywhere. “‘We talk of returning to England in a very short time. I confess, if it were not for seeing you all, I should feel sorry at leaving a place where I have been so well received, and am so well amused. “‘Adieu, my dear father. I shall direct this to Richmond, as my sisters do not mention your leaving that place yet.--Dutifully yours, “‘DIANA CROSBIE.’” Clare took the letter from Miss Hippesley’s hand. The notepaper, where it was not frayed, had a slender gold edging. Across the corner, written in the same round handwriting, were some lines added-- “The Duke of Leinster told somebody the other day that I was a dear, charming girl, and danced like an angel.” * * * * * That night as Clare was going to bed, she stood before Lady Crosbie’s picture. She noted the pearls in the hair, the laughing eyes, the flying grace of movement. Had all this light-heartedness, all this beauty become (to borrow one of Mrs. Inchbald’s crisp sayings) long since dust and daisies? “Not while this picture lasts,” thought Clare. “With this before us, Beauty, like stone-built London Bridge, may last for ages.” CHAPTER XXVII _One I have marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the best: Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, Presiding spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion._ W. WORDSWORTH. “Dolorès had a tame bird called ‘Piripe,’ you know,” said Clare one day to the children.