"Don't keep Lady MacDonald waiting on the doorstep; you might be in the hall ready to answer the bell." "Yes, ma'am." "And if the fog gets denser light the gas outside." Eleanor draws her chair to the fire, and pretends to read a Society paper, but her thoughts are far from the fashion article. She is supremely contented with herself and her surroundings. Her hair has its prettiest wave to-day, she is wearing her smartest toilette, and a new pair of bronzed beaded shoes. Her only trial in life at this moment is the propensity shown by her diamond crescent to turn over in its bed of lace, and reveal the back, with a hairpin for a fastening. She fixes it in her fringe at night. A little tremble of excitement rushes over Eleanor; the bell rings. Sarah flings open the door, and Giddy Mounteagle sails into the room with Lady MacDonald. Mrs. Roche feels quite small and insignificant under the stranger's patronising smile. Lady MacDonald raises her long-handled _lorgnette_ to scrutinise her surroundings. Giddy is conscious of the offending photograph. Eleanor draws forward the largest chair. Lady MacDonald sinks gracefully back among the cushions, her head poised on one side--she always holds it so. Some admirers once told her it was like a flower bending on its stem with the weight of its own beauty. "Oh! the fog outside," she cries, with an affected little cough, first cousin to a sigh. "I suppose it rises from the river." "Yes, and creeps into your soul, and clogs your brain," adds Giddy, "the yellow land of mist is not attractive." "No one will turn up at your party to-morrow," says Eleanor, "if it doesn't lift." "I never thought of that. The professionals will be stuck on the line, perhaps, and we shall have a songless, tuneless 'musical,' with only locals to eat our cakes." "My husband has promised to fetch me to-morrow; I must be back in town by seven, for two or three evening engagements," says Lady MacDonald. "Then I am glad mine is an afternoon," murmurs Giddy, "or I should not have secured you. It is delightful of dear Lord MacDonald to drive down." "Oh! he always does what I tell him," she replies, with a superior smile. She has a quantity of jingling golden ornaments hanging from a chatelaine at her waist, a gold crown on the handle of her _lorgnette_, and so many rings on her long pink fingers that they bulge over her knuckles. Her nails are manicured to appear almost crimson, her teeth are shining white under her curved lips, that look capable of bitter sayings and smiles of scorn. "The fire is too hot," she says, laying one soft hand against a still softer cheek. Her complexion is a marvel. Eleanor hands her a painted screen. "What a charming picture," continues Lady MacDonald. "I adore nymphs. Did you paint this, Mrs. Roche?" "Yes," replied Giddy, "Eleanor is a perfect artist." Eleanor raises her eyebrows, staring at Giddy in amazement, never having touched a brush in her life. "Do you exhibit?"