Miss Chressham slipped to her seat, her brown hair and eyes, her rich complexion and bright dress made her catch the light in rivalry even of the sparkling crystal and silver. As she moved something fell from her dress. "My letter to Selina!" she laughed, picking it up, "and I have never addressed it--that was Marius." "Selina Boyle?" questioned the Countess, listening for her son's step. "Yes, my dearest friend, you know, though I so seldom see her; she is in Bristol with her family now," smiled Miss Chressham. Lady Lyndwood turned her sweet face to the door. "Of course, I remember her, my dear; she was here two seasons back--how long Marius is!" "She sends her greeting to you," said Susannah, "and asks after Rose; she has heard so much of him, even in Bristol. I meant to tell you before." She glanced at the Countess with a feeling almost of guilt, and two lines from Selina Boyle's letter--"tell me, I pray you, of your cousin the Earl, who I hear has all the graces and all the vices--the saddest rake in London!"--seemed to weigh on her as if her own. But Lady Lyndwood smiled absently. "Marius must be so fatigued--he is rather pale, do you not think? And I wish he had brought Mr. Hardinge." Miss Chressham reminded her gently. "Mr. Hardinge had to accompany Mr. Brereton's son to London, and I expect Marius would not have cared to travel through England with a tutor." She was grateful her mention of Selina Boyle's letter (that she had been nerving herself to for three days past) had passed without comment. To attain this end she had chosen a moment of abstraction; Lady Lyndwood, weary with leisure, would most probably have desired to see the letter. And Miss Chressham did not wish to show it to her. Now Marius re-entered, fresh and elegant in grey satin, his eyes wonderfully dark under his powdered hair, a knot of thick lace at his throat and a fine pink cameo clasping it--a more animated Marius, a more charming Marius than the slightly ungainly lad from college who had, on occasion, flouted his mother and teased his cousin two years ago. "Mr. Hardinge has done wonders, I swear," sighed the Countess, still striving with that sense of loss. And Marius, too young to admit he had ever been different from what he was, blushed, and for a moment was awkward. "'Tis only two years," he said; then he caught his mother's yearning gaze and became conscious of his modish side curls and all the little fopperies of his dress so delightfully new, and the fresh colour deepened in his smooth cheeks. "'Twill seem very quiet here," remarked Susannah, coming delicately to the rescue, as he took his place opposite her; "look at the moon"--she pointed towards the violet night. "She appears so different in Venice," cried Marius; "are you sure she is the same, Susannah?" "Not at all," she answered. "And did you like Venice?" "All of it--so much, but this is sweet, the sweetest of all, my lady," he bowed towards his mother.