“Do you see that _blasé_-looking man driving that pair of splendid chestnuts?” he said to Vanna a few minutes after they had sat down. “He is Lord Elvaston, one of the greatest _roués_ about town. He used to know me well enough before he came into his fortune a score of years ago, when he was not above borrowing a five-pound note from anybody who would lend him one. Now, of course, he passes me as if he had never set eyes on me in his life. But such is the way of the world, more especially of the world of fashion.” Then a few minutes later, “Note that painted woman in the too palpable wig being driven slowly past in her yellow chariot. That is Lady Anne Baxendale. Her father was only a country rector on three hundred a year. The rectory grounds adjoined those of the house where I was born. Your mother, when a girl, and little Nan Cotsmore were great friends. I’ve seen them play skipping-rope by the hour together.” But Verinder had another motive in view in thus introducing his niece to one of the most striking spectacles which the metropolis has to offer for the delectation of the strangers within its gates. He wanted to excite in her bosom a feeling which should be compounded in about equal measure of envy and discontent—envy of those who, although, for the passing hour, she seemed as one of themselves, were yet as far removed from her by their wealth and position as if she and they were inhabitants of two totally different spheres (which, indeed, in one sense, they were); and discontent with the humble and prosaic surroundings of her own obscure existence. If he had read Giovanna aright, it seemed to him that it ought not to be a difficult matter to foment within her the very undesirable sentiments in question. “Are you sorry, my dear, that I brought you here this afternoon?” he asked, after a longer pause than common. “Sorry! oh no, how could I be? It is a beautiful sight. Nay, it is more than beautiful, it is magnificent. This is London as I used to dream of it.” “But never, I’ll wager, with any thought that it might possibly one day become a reality to you.” “A reality, you mean, as far as it can become such to one who, like myself, is a mere looker-on.” “When I spoke of its becoming a reality to you, I did not mean merely as a spectator, but as an actor in the show—a recognised actor in it and acknowledged as one of themselves by the ‘smartest’ people here.” Giovanna turned two deep wondering eyes on the Captain. “You talk in riddles, Uncle,” she said quietly.