Loungers dropped in, and loungers dropped out, coming for the most part to meet other loungers, and, like the Athenians of old, to ask whether there was anything new. Sometimes Miss Clode was consulted, and when this was the case, her way was soft, deprecating, and diffident. She thought she had heard this; she believed that she had heard that; she would endeavour to find out; or, yes, to be sure, her ladyship was right: it was so, she remembered now. While when not invited to give opinions, she was busy in the extreme over some item connected with her business, and hearing and seeing nothing, with that bended head so intent upon arranging, or booking, or tying up. There was very little, though, that Miss Clode did not hear, especially when some one of a group said, "Oh, fie!" or "No, really, now!" or "How shocking!" and there was a little burst of giggles. In due time, just as Miss Clode was instructing her niece in the art of tying up a packet of wools, so that one end was left open and the dealer could see at a glance what colours it contained, Annie's jaw dropped, and seemed to draw down the lower lids of her eyes, so that they were opened to the fullest extent, for Frank Burnett's handsome britzka drew up at the door, the steps were rattled down, _flip, flop, flap_, with a vigorous action that would bring people to the windows to see, and, all sweetness in appearance and odour, like the blossom she was, the MC's idol stepped daintily rustling down, the very model of all that was _naive_ and girlish. "Who'd ever think she was a wife?" said Miss Clode to herself. "Oh my! isn't she pretty?" said Annie. "Go on tying up those packets, and don't take any notice," said Miss Clode; and then, with the greatest of deference, wished her visitor good-morning, and begged to know how she was. "Not very well, Miss Clode: so tired. Society is so exacting. Can you recommend me any book that will distract me a little?" "Let me see, ma'am," said Miss Clode, turning her head on one side in a very bird-like way, and bending forward as if she were going to peck a seed off the counter. "Something that will really take me out of myself." "The last romance might be too exciting, ma'am?" "Do you think it would?" "Ye-e-e-es. Oh, yes, decidedly so in your case, ma'am," said Miss Clode, in quite the tone of a female physician. "Poems--soft, dreamy, soothing poems, now, would I think be most suited." "Oh, do you think so?" said Mrs Burnett half pettishly. "Yes, ma'am, I have a volume here, not included in the library, but for sale--`Lays of the Heart-strings'--by a gentleman of quality. I should recommend it strongly." "Oh, dear no," exclaimed the visitor, as Miss Clode took the work from the shelf. "I don't think a--well, I will look at it," she said, blushing vividly, as she saw that the book did not thoroughly close in one part. "Perhaps you are right, Miss Clode. I will take it. What is the price?"