Lady Cecil glanced at her aunt's new acquaintance as he sat opposite to her. He was quite different from any one she ever had seen before; and to her eyes--so accustomed to look upon the graceful perfection, the harmonious elegance of high-bred youth, there was something almost uncivilised in his aspect. He wore the high shirt-collars in which she had seen him at the doctor's ball, the tight-fitting dress coat of a departed age, a rusty black cravat, and boots of dubious symmetry. His brown hair was thick and long; but the massive head had something leonine in its character; the aquiline nose and large bright blue eyes had that stamp of power which is so near akin to beauty. That brief contemplation of Laurence O'Boyneville awakened Cecil Chudleigh to the consciousness that the "dreadful man" to whom she so much objected was not quite the kind of person to be despised. "I dare say he is clever--in his own way," she thought; "but what could have induced my aunt to ask him to dinner?" She was spared the trouble of finding some new subject wherewith to bridge the gulf of silence yawning so blankly between her and the barrister, for the all-accomplished cow-keeper announced Mr. and Miss Crawford; and wherever Flo went she put to flight the dull horror of silence. The Crawfords had been invited to please Lady Cecil; "and because Mr. Crawford is a nice sort of person to have, you know, my dear," the dowager said to one of her confidantes; "for there is such a rage about these painter people just now, and I assure you his place at Kensington is a perfect palace, with marble pillars in the hall, and old stained-glass windows, and carved oak panels, that he has picked up at Antwerp; and I hear the prices he gets for his pictures are _something fabulous_; but he's the dearest unaffected creature you ever met; and if you like to come on Wednesday night between nine and ten, you shall see him."