“O, but you can’t expand it by letting in a stranger. Had the mother no people of her own; no surroundings whatever; nobody but you who could be appealed to for this wretched girl?” inquired Mrs. Fausset, fanning herself wearily, as she lolled back in her low chair. She wore a loose cream-coloured gown, of softest silk and Indian embroidery, and there were diamond stars trembling amongst her feathery golden hair. The flowing garment in which she had dined alone with her husband was to be changed presently for white satin and old Mechlin lace, in which she was to appear at three evening parties; but in the meantime, having for once in a way dined at home, she considered her mode of life intensely domestic. The seven-year-old daughter was roaming about with her doll, sometimes in one drawing-room, sometimes in another. There were three, opening into each other, the innermost room half conservatory, shadowy with palms and tropical ferns. Mildred was enjoying herself in the quiet way of children accustomed to play alone, looking at the pretty things upon the various tables, peering in at the old china figures in the cabinets—the ridiculous Chelsea shepherd and shepherdess; the Chelsea lady in hawking costume, with a falcon upon her wrist; the absurd lambs, and more absurd foliage; and the Bow and Battersea ladies and gentlemen, with their blunt features and coarse complexions. Mildred was quite happy, prowling about and looking at things in silent wonder; turning over the leaves of illustrated books, and lifting the lids of gold and enamelled boxes; trying to find out the uses and meanings of things. Sometimes she came back to the front drawing-room, and seated herself on a stool at her mother’s feet, solemnly listening to the conversation, following it much more earnestly, and comprehending it much better, than either her father or mother would have supposed possible. To stop up after nine o’clock was an unwonted joy for Mildred, who went to bed ordinarily at seven. The privilege had been granted in honour of the rare occasion—a _tête-à-tête_ dinner in the height of the London season. “Is there no one else who could take her?” repeated Mrs. Fausset impatiently, finding her husband slow to answer. “There is really no one else upon whom the poor child has any claim.” “Cannot she remain at school? You could pay for her schooling, of course. I should not mind that.” This was generous in a lady who had brought her husband a nominal five thousand pounds, and who spent his money as freely as if it had been water. “She cannot remain at school. She is a kind of girl who cannot get on at school. She needs home influences.” “You mean that she is a horrid rebellious girl who has been expelled from a school, and whom I am to take because nobody else will have her.”