Lucy looked up with surprise: at the haste and almost agitated impulse of her careful guardian. Lady Randolph was dressed for her parties in black velvet and lace, with the _rivière_ of diamonds which Lucy admired. She was a stately personage, imposing to behold, and yet, as she stood, somewhat excited, anxious, and deprecating by the side of the little fair-haired girl in her black frock, Lucy felt a conviction of her own superior importance which was painful and humiliating to her. The uneasy sparkle in the eye, the glance of anxiety in the face of the lady; who, in every natural point of view, was so much above herself, made her unhappy. How much money can do! Was it this, and this only which disturbed the balance between them, and made Lady Randolph’s profession of faith in her sound as apologetic? She rose to follow upstairs with a confused sensation of pain. She had been trained, indeed, to think her fortune the chief thing in the world, but not in this point of view. The drawing-room was dim and cool, the windows all open, the night air blowing in over the boxes of mignonette and geranium in the balconies. The sounds from without came softened through the soft air, but yet furnished a distant hum of life, an intimation of the great world around, the mass of human cares and troubles and enjoyments which were in full career. Lady Randolph placed Lucy in her own chair by the little table with the reading-lamp, and gave her Bertie’s book, with a smile. “No, I don’t think it will turn your head,” she said; “read it, my love, and you will tell me to-morrow what you think of it. How I wish I could take you with me! and how much more I shall enjoy going out next year when you are able to go with me, Lucy!” She gave her another kiss, with a little nervous enthusiasm, and left the girl seated there in the silence with many wonderings in her mind. Lucy sat and listened with the novel in her hand while the carriage came to the door, and Lady Randolph drove away. Other carriages passed, drew up in the street below, took up and set down other fine people going here and there into the sparkling crowds of society. Many an evening before, Lucy had stolen behind the curtain to watch them with a country-girl’s curiosity, pleased even to see the billowing train visible through a carriage-window, which betrayed the fine evening toilettes within. But this evening she did not move from her chair. There was so little light in the room that the windows mysteriously veiled in filmy drapery added something from the dim skies outside to the twilight within. A shaded lamp stood in the back drawing-room, making one spot of brightness on a table. Her reading-lamp, with its green shade, condensed all the light it gave upon her hand with the book in it, resting upon her knee. But her face was in the dimness, and so were her thoughts. She was not so angry with Bertie as Lady Randolph had been for his dedication. It was intended to be