To the general he was a stranger still in town, and of the sort that draws the eye and provokes inquiry. Lady Mary, the only goal of whose shallow existence was the attention of the sterner sex, who loved to break hearts as a child breaks toys, for the fun of seeing how they look when broken--and who, because of that, had succeeded in breaking far fewer than she fondly imagined--looked up into his face with the “most perditiously alluring” eyes in England--so Mr. Craske, the poet, who stood at her elbow now, had described them in the dedicatory sonnet of his last book of poems. (Wherefore, in parenthesis be it observed, she had rewarded him with twenty guineas, as he had calculated that she would.) There was a sudden stir in the group. Mr. Craske had caught sight of Lady Ostermore and Mistress Winthrop, and he fell to giggling, a flimsy handkerchief to his painted lips. “Oh, 'Sbud!” he bleated. “Let me die! The audaciousness of the creature! And behold me the port and glance of her! Cold as a vestal, let me perish!” Lady Mary turned with the others to look in the direction he was pointing--pointing openly, with no thought of dissembling. Mr. Caryll's eyes fell upon Mistress Winthrop, and his glance was oddly perceptive. He observed those matters of which Mr. Craske had seemed to make sardonic comment: the erect stiffness of her carriage, the eyes that looked neither to right nor left, and the pallor of her face. He observed, too, the complacent air with which her ladyship advanced beside her husband's ward, her fan moving languidly, her head nodding to her acquaintance, as in supreme unconcern of the stir her coming had effected. Mr. Caryll had been dull indeed, knowing what he knew, had he not understood to the full the humiliation to which Mistress Hortensia was being of purpose set submitted. And just then Rotherby, who had turned, with Wharton and another now, came by them again. This time he halted, and his companions with him, for just a moment, to address his mother. She turned; there was an exchange of greetings, in which Mistress Hortensia standing rigid as stone--took no part. A silence fell about; quizzing-glasses went up; all eyes were focussed upon the group. Then Rotherby and his friends resumed their way. “The dog!” said Mr. Caryll, between his teeth, but went unheard by any, for in that moment Dorothy Deller--the younger of the Lady Mary's cousins--gave expression to the generous and as yet unsullied little heart that was her own. “Oh, 'tis shameful!” she cried. “Will you not go speak with her, Molly?” The Lady Mary stiffened. She looked at the company about her with an apologetic smile. “I beg that ye'll not heed the child,” said she. “'Tis not that she is without morals--but without knowledge. An innocent little fool; no worse.” “'Tis bad enough, I vow,” laughed an old beau, who sought fame as a man of a cynical turn of humor.