"They are always together," says Mrs. Chetwynde maliciously. "So they were in Rome, for the matter of that. But, of course, they are very old friends--brought up as children, and all that?" "Of course," says Mrs. Douglas loftily. "Why, they were like brother and sister. Surely no one is so uncharitable as----" "My dear, we are all uncharitable, more or less. And Lauraine is very pretty, and Sir Francis not _quite_ so devoted as he might be, considering it was a love-match--so you said. I think I should give Lauraine a hint, if I were you." "Lauraine is quite capable of managing her own affairs," said Mrs. Douglas pettishly. In her own mind she thinks she knows how such a hint would be received. "Keith is only a boy. Lauraine looks upon him just as a brother--always did. She is accustomed to order him about, and have him beside her. Pray don't listen to such ill-natured gossip." But all the time an uncomfortable memory is rising up before her. She sees a pale young face and the fiery wrath of two blue eyes, and hears the passionate reproaches of Keith Athelstone's lips as he tells her of his ruined life. Good heavens! what does he mean? Why does he stay by Lauraine's side now? She feels nervous and unsettled, and almost resolves she will speak to Lauraine, and give her that word of caution which her friend has suggested. The world is so wicked, and after all-- Her thoughts are interrupted by fresh arrivals. Into the exclusive circle in which Mrs. Douglas' soul delights, stride the massive proportions and gorgeous sweeping draperies of Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe. Following her is a little dainty figure--a sort of modern Dresden shepherdess in point of colouring and attire. She is introduced by Mrs. Wooliffe as "My niece from New York, Miss Anastasia Jane Jefferson." Every one looks at her. Every one wonders whether it is prettiness, or piquancy, or _chic_, that makes the radiant face so bewitching--the tiny figure so attractive, and one among the coterie, the Belgravian matron, with _demoiselles à marier_, looks virtuously indignant and annoyed at the intrusion. "She is sure to be fast and talk with that awful twang, that's one comfort," she thinks, as with the coldest and stiffest of bows she greets the new-comer. But Miss Jefferson is not fast or vulgar, and though her accent and expression are decidedly American, they have a piquant charm of their own that the younger members of the conclave listen to enviously, and the men seem to find irresistibly attractive. Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe and her niece fairly break up the select groups and _tête à têtes_, and make themselves the centre of attraction and attention. The loud voice and hearty laughter of the elder lady peal through the room, to the utter annihilation of softer voices and confidential whispers.