"Everything about her is natural--that's the beauty of it," Winifred replied, repressing her indignation at hearing the texture of her divinity's garments put into vulgar words. ("I wonder Celia does not tell me how many yards of stuff there must be in the dress," she said to herself.) "Everything about her is natural--at least in perfect harmony," she repeated, and then she gave a deep sigh. "Celia, is she to sing again?" she inquired in a low voice. "Yes," Celia replied, consulting the programme she held, "once--no, twice--once alone and another time in a trio, or quartette rather. I daresay it is some kind of glee: the name sounds like that." "I shall not care for that," said Winifred, "but oh, I am so glad she is to sing again alone." She did care for the quartette when it came, for Miss Norreys' voice was far ahead of the others, and then there was the pleasure of seeing her! And the third time she sang, the impression of the first was intensified, for though the song itself was a gayer one, the indescribable pathos of her voice was there too--it was as if a spirit were singing of joys which had once been his, long ago, in some golden age of childhood. After that, Winifred, though she sat silent and apparently attentive, heard but little of the music. Then came the little bustle of collecting discarded cloaks and furs, and the interchange of remarks upon the performance, as the "assistants," in the French sense, most of whom were women, made their way to the door. "Winifred, my dear, Celia," said their hostess, when they were waiting with her for the carriage at the entrance, "I want to introduce you to my friend, Lady Campion." "You have enjoyed the concert, I think," said the stranger--the same whose remarks about the Maryon girls had pleased Mrs Balderson. "Very much, oh, very, _very_ much," both sisters replied. Their chaperon gave a little smile of satisfaction as she glanced at Lady Campion. "There's some pleasure in having girls like these to take about, isn't there?" the smile and glance seemed to say, and the answering expression in Lady Campion's bright eyes showed that she understood. "It is cold, isn't it?" said Mrs Balderson, drawing her fur-lined cloak more closely round her, with a slight shiver. "It _looks_ cold," replied Lady Campion, as she glanced up and down the street where the incipient fog veiling the dim red still lingering in the sky, and the yellow glare of the just-lighted lamps, gave a curious, half-mysterious effect, not without its charm. "It looks cold," she repeated, "but I don't think that it really is so." "It was beautifully warm in the concert-room," said Winifred. "London is so much less chilly than the country just now. It _is_ so delightful to be here."