“Ah, miss! it is as I say,” continued the girl. “I can see. There is his Grace talking of nothing but you, and the Honorable Mr. Vane hoping that you are not ill because you keep your own room, and you all the while so indifferent, dozing in your chair, and Miss Margaret looking--I beg your pardon, miss--as if she would give her ears to be taken notice of by either of them.” “Dress me, Chayter!” exclaimed Helen, abruptly, “and, if you can, pray be silent; your volubility makes my head ache.” Chayter understood a hint, though she did not quite comprehend whether volubility meant impertinence or overwhelming information. She gathered from Helen’s tone that she was in no humour to listen to her prattle, and she was shrewd enough to keep her tongue still when its rattle was likely to be unwelcome. Helen quickly made her toilet, and had seldom looked more beautiful than she did when she entered the drawing-room, which, though half filled by the guests and family, was all but silent without her. Her eye ran round the apartment as she glided in, and she perceived her mamma and sister Margaret conversing together. Her papa was discoursing with the young Duke upon the management of estates, and detailing a plan by which to obtain the largest possible amount of income with the least possible expenditure, to all of which the Duke appeared to listen, though he yawned frequently; but he rescued himself from the charge of inattention by occasionally observing--“Weally!” “Pwecisely,” “Pwobably,” “Wemawkable!” Malcolm was half-asleep upon a couch, and Lester Vane was seated by the side of her sister Evangeline, talking with her in a tone sufficiently low as not to be heard--at least, where she stood. What strange feeling was it that possessed her when her eye fell upon Evangeline and Lester Vane, as it were _tête-à-tête_? Why did a flush mount to her brow, and a pang of vexation shoot through her breast? He was nothing to her; what he might do ought to have no interest in her eyes, for if any feeling for him was predominant in her heart, it was not certainly of a favourable nature. Yet he had gazed upon her so ardently, and spoken to her with such gentle tones, that if she could draw a conclusion from his manner, it was that her beauty had made a deep impression upon his heart. Now to see his dreamy eyes dwelling on Evangeline’s innocent face so earnestly, to observe his impressive manner, as he addressed her with words toned so as to make her gentle heart thrill with a new emotion, was to be made to feel that she had made no impression upon him at all, or that he made love to her simply _pour passer le temps_. She burnt with vexation. “He shall love me,” she thought, “woo me, kneel to me. Oh! but how I will spurn him--shatter him with my scorn.” Poor Hugh Riversdale!