In direct contrast, too, to her cousin's, was Lucy's mind. She was not a girl who could be loved by other girls. Save when employed in "gazing" _she_ never looked any one straight in the face. The servants, our stern and acute judges, said that "Miss Lucy wasn't to be trusted, but that Miss Georgie was as good as gold." As usual, the servants were right. "Unsuccessful again, Lord Spunyarn," said Lucy, dropping him an ironical courtesy, and making a provoking little _moue_. "As usual, and I suppose my own fault, though my last serious failure was certainly not my fault, but entirely due to you, Miss Warrender." "It was certainly not your lordship's misfortune," smiled the young lady. Haggard and his _fiancée_ seemed to have a good deal to say to each other, but probably like that of most engaged persons, their conversation was merely childish. And now the little crowd of players and spectators came to make their _adieux_. For in the country people still retain the fashion of bidding their hosts good-bye. Nay, more, they are in the habit of even thanking them for their entertainment, and for the pleasure they have received: whereas your fashionable, having had all there is to have, and eaten and drank of what seemeth unto him good, carefully rejecting the less _recherché_ viands, simply disappears. He was, and is not. The Warrender girls were surrounded by a cluster of artless maidens; these shook hands and kissed, after the manner of their kind, and as they were more or less intimate with their hostesses. "He is perfect, quite perfect," whispered the rector's romantic sister, as she squeezed Georgie's hand, "but, oh, I do hope that you are sure of his principles, Georgie, dear, for in marriage so much depends, dear, upon principles." As Haggard's only principles were his personal comfort, filliped by the gentle stimulus of frequent flirtations, was Georgie quite right in replying, "Oh, dear Miss Dodd, I am quite sure of his principles?" Gradually the miscellaneous gathering took its departure. No man or male person left the premises without one of Lucy's fatal _oeillades_; each one of the stronger sex, too, received a rather more than necessary pressure of her soft and dimpled hand. Many among the elders, nay, the patriarchs even, felt their pulses quicken at the unexpected pressure and the sly bright glances; it made them feel, not as if they were smitten with the good looks of Lucy Warrender, but as if she herself had been captivated by the prepossessing appearance and manners of each special victim. That was the art of it.