If Lucy’s news had “shocked” Florence, Lucy was certainly startled by the new standpoint in the Brand establishment! If the five people to whom she was introduced—quite strange to her, and in most elaborate toilettes—were “one or two friends,” what represented “formality” in the Brand ideas? Of course, the hostess’s sister was introduced to them all—a murmur of names, a waving of bowing figures, amid which Lucy caught the name of Jinxson, and was able to associate it with a little woman, in emerald green brocade, a thatch of tawny curls beetling over a brow which needed no dwarfing. Then she found herself relegated to the more special society of a very tall man, very dark, with a sounding Highland name, whose prefix alone fastened itself upon her ears, so that ever afterwards she thought of him as “Mr. Mac.” He opened conversation with her by asking first if she had seen the last opera, and then if she contemplated going “for the autumn” to the Highlands or to Norway? Then he murmured, “May I have the honour,” and they fell into the procession filing into the dining-room. The dining-room was a still further revelation of the long distance the Brands’ customs had travelled during the few months since Lucy had last joined in their social life. Fine napery they had always had, but now the long table-cloth was edged with rich embroidery and heavy lace. The table centre was a creamy film over pale rose-satin, and that note of colour was carried out in every detail of china, glass and floral decoration. The latter was a wonderful arrangement, which Lucy at once knew it must have taken hours to work out. The menu was equally elaborate; one out-of-season delicacy followed another. The wines and liqueurs seemed to Lucy to be equally rare and choice, judging from their names whispered in her ear ever and again by two men in severely correct evening dress who “waited at table,” and were in their turn waited upon by the housemaid and the parlour-maid. One of the ladies exclaimed on the loveliness of the floral scheme. “What genius you have at your service, Mrs. Brand!” she cried. “Oh, not at my service only,” Florence replied nonchalantly. “I could not trust such a thing to my maids, and I could not spare time for it myself. Gosson, the florist, knows of one or two young women whom he recommends for such work.” “It needs much taste,” said the Highland gentleman. “Oh, I understand they are quite superior people,” Florence answered. “When I asked if one could rely on their honesty, he gave me the history of the one he meant to send. The daughter of a doctor, I think Gosson said, who had found it so impossible to provide for his family by his profession that he was tempted into speculation, and, of course, lost everything and committed suicide. It looked odd to see the dismal-looking girl in black creating such visions of beauty.”