“Well,” he said, “that’s a bargain. When you want to do anything angelically silly, and throw away your money, you are to come and consult me.” “Do you really mean it?” said Lucy, with most serious eyes. “I really mean it, and there is my hand upon it,” he said. She put her hand into his with gentle confidence, and he held it for a moment, looking at the slender fingers. Lucy, as has been said, had, though she had no right to it, a pretty hand. “What a little bit of a thing,” he said, “to have so much to give away.” “Yes,” Lucy said, with a long breath that was scarcely a sigh, and without the vestige of a blush of embarrassment, “it is a great responsibility.” She was as sincere and serious as if she had been an old woman, Sir Thomas felt, and he laughed and let the little hand drop. His fatherly flirtation, a mode which he had known to be very efficacious, had no more effect than if he had been a hundred. This failure tickled his sense of humor, far more than success would have pleased him otherwise. “That girl is a little original,” he said, when he talked her over with Lady Randolph; but, meantime, it was very certain that they were the best of friends. They were seated at breakfast on Saturday morning, rather more than a week after his arrival. Lucy had been making up her mind that she could make no further excuse to herself, but must go to Hampstead that day, and was trying, as she drank her coffee, to compose little speeches fit for the occasion. Sir Thomas was half hidden behind the newspaper, and Lady Randolph cast a glance now and then, as she finished her breakfast, at the pages of a weekly review, supposed to be the most _spirituel_ of its kind, the first in fashion and in force. “Oh!” she cried, suddenly. “Lucy, here is something interesting; here is a notice of ‘Imogen.’ You must take it out to the Russells; for once Cecilia has been as good as her word.” Lucy was in the midst of a carefully turned sentence by which she meant to assure Mrs. Russell that she felt Bertie’s “kindness.” She looked up with lively interest--then, “Good heavens!” Lady Randolph cried. “What is the matter, aunt?” said Sir Tom; he put out his big hand and took it from before her, with the license of his privileged position. “We others are most anxious to hear, and you keep it to yourself. Shall I read it aloud, Miss Lucy?” “No! no!” Lady Randolph cried, putting out her hand. She was pale with fright and trouble, but Sir Tom did not pay any attention; he did not notice her looks, and what was there in Bertie Russell to make anything that could be said about his book alarming to these ladies? He took it up lightly. “I must see this Russell,” he said, “that you are so much interested in. What right has the fellow to make you anxious?” he was looking at Lucy, who was, indeed, curious and interested, but no more. “Now, if you are not good,” he said, looking at her, “I shall keep you in suspense.”