Cocky was present for half an hour, looking a shaky, consumptive, but not inelegant Grammont, for his figure was slender and his features were good. He was infinitely diverted by the sight of William Massarene. “Passes muster, don’t he, when he don’t open his mouth?” he said to Hurstmanceaux. “Lord, what an ugly mug he’s got! But the women are always asking for his photo. Haha! we’ve got it in Stanhope Street large as life. Pater won’t let him be taken up to him, and you won’t know him either. You’re both wrong. He’s thoroughly respectable, and he’s got a lot of my paper.” And Cocky, leaving his brother-in-law furious, sneaked off to find the buffets. It was a very splendid and gorgeous scene in the great house which Wren had designed, and many a famous painter had decorated. Margaret Massarene gazed at it as she sat in solitary state, blazing with diamonds and admirably attired in black velvet and white satin, with that due regard to her age which it had so wounded her to hear suggested. No one noticed her, no one remembered her; but some very stately dowagers near her glanced at her now and then with an expression which made her wish that she were back again in Dakota by her oil-stove and her linen-wringer. “’Tis a mighty pretty sight,” thought Margaret Massarene as she sat and looked on; “and William’s dancing is a thing I never did think to see in all my days. But these women look as if they’d like to duck me in a pond.” Carrie Wisbeach, who was genuinely good-natured, observed her neglected and isolated aspect, and called to her side a fresh-colored pleasant-looking person, old, but hale and bright-eyed, who had taken with success the name of Samuel Pepys. “Daddy, let me take you up to the Massarene woman,” she whispered. “She’s so dreadfully disconsolate, and they give extraordinarily good dinners.” He looked and made a little wry face. “They’ve got Von Holstein’s cook,” she added persuasively. “Really? Richemont?” “Yes, Richemont; and the best cellar now in London. Come, make yourself pleasant!” “Ronnie won’t know ’em,” said the gentleman, glancing down the rooms to where Hurstmanceaux stood, looking very handsome but extremely bored, wearing the dress which a Courcy had worn when ambassador for Charles to the French Court. “Ronnie!” said Lady Wisbeach. “If Ronnie’s fads were attended to we should know nobody except our own families. Come along!” He reluctantly submitted, deriving courage as he went from the memories of Von Holstein’s _chefs_. Her aunts looked unutterable reproach at Carrie Wisbeach as she murmured the inarticulate formula which presented Mr. Gwyllian of Lostwithiel to Mrs. Massarene. “Pretty sight, isn’t it?” he said, as he sank back on cushions beside her. “A beautiful sight,” said Margaret, with unction, “and one as I never thought to see, sir.” He stared and laughed.