Being called upon to describe Griffith Donne, one would hardly feel inclined to describe him as being imposing in personal appearance. He was a thin, undersized young man, rather out at elbows and shabby of attire, and with a decided air of Bohemia about him; but his youthful face was singularly pleasing and innocent, and his long-lashed, brown-black eyes were more than good-looking,--they were absolutely beautiful in a soft, pathetic way,--beautiful as the eyes of the loveliest of women. He came into the room as if he was used to coming into it in an every-day fashion; and Dolly, looking up, gave him a smile and a nod. “Ah, you are all here, are you?” he said. “What is on hand now? What is all this white stuff for?” And he drew a chair up close by Dolly's side, and lifted the merino in his hand. “For Friday night,” answered Aimée. “Bilberry's again, Griffith. Coffee and conversation this time.” Griffith looked at Dolly inquiringly, but Dolly only laughed and shrugged her plump shoulders wickedly. “Look here,” he said, with a disapproving air, “it ain't true, is it, Dolly? You are not going to make a burnt-offering of yourself on the Bilberry shrine again, are you?” But Dolly only laughed the more as she took the merino from him. “If you want a breadth of merino to hold, take another one,” she said. “I want that. And as to being a burnt-offering on the shrine of Bilberry, my dear Griffith, you must know it is policy,” and immediately went on with her unpicking again, while Griffith, bending over in an attitude more remarkable for ease than grace, looked on at her sharp little glancing scissors with an appearance of great interest.