But as this protest was uttered the carriage drew up before Mrs. Russell’s house, where all was expectation, though there was no peeping at windows or signs of excitement, as on the first visit. The drawing-room, which was like poor Mrs. Russell herself, limp and crumpled with the wear and tear of life rather than old, had been rubbed and dusted into such a measure of brightness as was possible. There was a pot of crocuses at the window, and tea upon the table; and the whole family were assembled to do honor to the visitor. There was nothing slipshod about Bertie now; his hair was carefully brushed, all the details of his appearance anxiously cared for. “For who can tell what may happen?” his mother said; “we never know what an hour may bring forth;” and inspired by this pious sentiment she had counseled Bertie, nothing loath, to buy himself a new necktie. His whole life might be altered by the becomingness of its tint and the success of its arrangement. Do not girls perpetually take these little precautions? and why not young men too? And they all stood up to receive Lucy, and regarded her with a kind of admiring adoration. “Give Miss Trevor this chair--it is the most comfortable.” “Mother, a little more cream for Miss Trevor, and some cake.” They could not do too much for her. “Katie is so happy that we have seen you; she writes to me this morning, that all will go well with us now we know her dear, dear Lucy.” “We have all known you by name so long,” Bertie added; “it has been familiar in our mouths as household words.” Lucy was abashed by all this homage; but how could she help being a little pleased too? Mary was the only one who did not chime in. “I suppose Katie thinks you lucky,” she said; “I don’t believe in luck myself.” And then Lucy made a little timid diversion, by asking about Mr. Bertie’s book. Was it finished yet? and would it soon be published? It is pleasant to be courted and applauded; but somewhat embarrassing when it goes too far. “He has not got a publisher yet; is it not strange,” cried Mrs. Russell indignantly, “that, whatever genius you may have, or however beautifully you may write, it is all nothing, nothing at all without a publisher? He may be just an ignorant man, just a tradesman--not in the least able to understand; indeed, I hear that they are dreadful people, and cheat you on every side (and authors are a great deal too generous and too heedless, Miss Trevor, they allow themselves to be cheated); but however beautiful your book may be (and Bertie’s book is lovely), not one step can he move, not one thing can he do, till one of these common dreadful men--oh!” cried the indignant mother, “it is a disgrace to our age--it is a shame to the country--” “They are necessary evils,” said Bertie with magnanimity; “we can’t do without them. You must not think it quite so bad, Miss Trevor, as my mother says. And after all one is independent of them as soon as one has got a hearing; _ce n’est que le premier pas_--”