"Philip Foley is a most estimable creature," said Flo; "and if he were not absurdly self-conscious--all young men are so self-conscious nowadays; in fact, in a general way, I consider young men perfectly hateful,--and if he were a marquis with something under a hundred thousand a year, I should think him quite adorable. But then, you see, he isn't a marquis, and he will never earn any thing like a hundred thousand a year by painting those wild skies and dismal rocks of his. Do you know what the Princess Elizabeth, that dear sweet darling whom every one so admires, said when she saw one of Mr. Foley's red-and-yellow sunsets hung next the ceiling in Trafalgar Square:--'Why, what do the Hanging Committee mean by sticking up pictures of eggs and bacon?' said the princess; and ever since that, the poor young man's skies have been called eggs and bacon." CHAPTER VI. WEDDING CARDS. Returning from the Fountains one day after a pleasant morning spent half in the garden, half in Mr. Crawford's painting-room, Cecil found the dowager in one of her worst humours. "Has any thing annoyed you while I have been away, auntie?" she asked, gently. "Has any thing annoyed me, indeed, auntie!" echoed Mrs. MacClaverhouse, with unusual acrimony. "I begin to think that I was only sent into the world for the purpose of being annoyed. Do you know that the mail from Marseilles comes in to-day, Lady Cecil?" Cecil's downcast face grew first crimson and then pale. The Indian letters? The very mention of the post that brought them set her heart beating fast and passionately; and she had no right to be interested in their coming: she had no right to be glad or sorry for any tidings that the Indian mail could bring. "You have heard from Captain Gordon, I suppose, auntie?" she said, falteringly. "Yes, I have heard from him," answered the dowager in her most snappish manner. "I hope he is well?" "Oh yes, he is _well_ enough, or as well as a man can be who is such a fool as to become the victim of any designing minx who chooses to set her cap at him. What do you think of that enclosure, Lady Cecil?" The dowager tossed an envelope across the table towards the spot where her niece was standing, downcast and sad. Cecil knew what the enclosure was; yes, a little shiver went through her as she took up the envelope, for she knew only too well what it contained. A glazed envelope with a crest emblazoned in silver was within the outer covering, and inside the flap of the glazed envelope was inscribed the name of Mary Chesham. Two limp, slippery cards dropped from Cecil's hand as she read the name of her rival; the name which was hers no longer, for on the larger card appeared the more dignified title of the matron, "Mrs. Hector Gordon." She put the cards back into the envelope and laid it gently on the table. "God grant they may be happy!" she murmured softly.