No very special visitors to Lady Muriel. Plenty of carriages with women, young and old, elegant and dowdy, aristocratic and plebeian, on the front seat, and the _Court Guide_ in all its majesty on the back. Plenty of raps, preposterous in their potency, delivered with unerring aim by ambrosial mercuries, who disengaged quite a cloud of powder in the operation; packs of cards, delivered like conjuring tricks into the hands of the hall-porter, over whose sleek head appeared a charming perspective of other serving-men; kind regards, tender inquiries, congratulations, condolence, P.P.C.'s, all the whole formula duly gone through between the ambrosial creatures who have descended from the monkey-board and the plethoric giant who has extricated himself from the leathern bee-hive--one of the principals in the mummery stolidly looking on from the carriage, the other sitting calmly upstairs, neither taking the smallest part, or caring the least about it. The lady visitors did not come in, as a rule, but the men did, almost without exception. The men arrived from half-past four till half-past six, and, during the season, came in great numbers. Why? Well, Lady Muriel was very pleasant, and Miss Kilsyth was "charmin', quite charmin'." They said this parrotwise; there are no such parrots as your modern young men; they repeat whatever they have learnt constantly but between their got-by-rote sentences they are fatally and mysteriously dumb. "Were you at the Duchess's last night, Lady Muriel?" "Yes! You were not there, I think?" "No; couldn't go--was on duty." _Pause. Dead silence. Five clocks ticking loudly and running races with each other_. "Yes, by the way, knew you were there." "Did you--who told you?" "Saw it in the paper, 'mongst the comp'ny, don't you know, and that kind of thing." _Awful pause. Clocks take up the running. Lady Muriel looks on the carpet. Visitor calmly scrutinises furniture round the room, at length he receives inspiration from lengthened contemplation of his hat-lining_. "Seen Clement Penruddock lately?" "Yes, he was here on--when was it?--quite lately--O, the day before yesterday." "Poor old Clem! Going to marry Lady Violet Dumanoir, they say. Pity Lady Vi don't leave off putting that stuff on her face and shoulders, isn't it?" "How ridiculous you are!" "No, but really! she does!" "How can you be so silly!" _Grand and final pause of ten minutes, broken by the visitor's saying quietly_, "Well, good-bye," _and lounging off to repeat the invigorating conversation elsewhere_.