The days passed very quickly, the evenings were delightful, and it was not often that even the most transient cloud obscured the brightness of Mrs. Lobyer's countenance. The master of Pevenshall inflicted very little of his society upon the guests who enjoyed themselves in his mansion. There were two or three horsey-looking men and two or three commercial magnates with whom he chiefly consorted. His mornings were spent in hunting when the weather was favourable, or in lounging about the great quadrangle, surrounded by outbuildings and stables, examining his horses, presiding over a rat-hunt, or worrying his dogs, when the hounds and huntsmen were fain to be idle. His evenings were devoted to the society of his own particular friends in the billiard or smoking-rooms; and except at dinner-time, he rarely intruded on his wife's circle. After observing her friend for some time with affectionate anxiety, Cecil began to think that perhaps the life which the painter's daughter had chosen for herself was very well suited to her. "Why do I wonder about her?" Cecil thought, as she saw Mrs. Lobyer the gayest and most animated of all the Pevenshall party; "she possesses every thing which most women sigh for from the hour in which they leave the nursery, and it would be strange indeed if she were not happy." But then came the thought of the future. Must not the time come when the pleasures of a fine house and agreeable society must pall upon the mistress of Pevenshall? Four or five years hence, when custom had robbed these joys of their bloom and freshness, was it not terribly probable that Mr. Lobyer's wife would awaken to nobler aspirations, only to find that she had awakened too late? Then how commonplace and monotonous the unvarying round of country-house gaieties, the turmoil of London dissipations, must seem to the woman who had made it the business of her life to win them! "She is younger than I am, and she does not know how soon one grows tired of these things," thought Cecil. "I have sometimes thought, when driving up and down by the Serpentine with my aunt, that the treadmill could scarcely be worse than the Lady's Mile must be to women who have lived ten or fifteen years in society, and have gone through the same routine year after year." On the twenty-fourth of December a letter came from Mr. O'Boyneville, announcing his inability to spend Christmas at Pevenshall. "I have made a great effort to come to you, but I find my work for Hilary Term so heavy that I dare not turn my back upon my study. You would scarcely like to see my crimson bag in the Pevenshall library, and if I came I should be obliged to bring my bag with me. So enjoy yourself without me, my dear, and forget that there is such a person as Laurence O'Boyneville in existence."