# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
"Who do you think," exclaimed Lady Anne, as she entered the drawing-room late next day with an open letter in her hand, "is coming to London?"
"Uncle Frank," cried Isabella, whose quick eye had caught sight of the hand-writing.
"I wish you would call people by their right names," said her mother, pettishly; "you know very well that Mr. Glentworth is not your uncle, and I should not suppose that he would like to be called so."
Isabella was silenced, though she could not but remember that he always seemed pleased at the appellation given him when they were children, and that he himself used the term in the numerous kind little notes that accompanied his numerous presents. They had not seen him for years; still "Uncle Frank " was among their most agreeable recollections. The few pretty things, whether trinkets or toys, that they possessed, were all his gifts. If ever any of the girls had taken a fancy to personify their good genius, they would certainly have given to his image all they remembered of "Uncle Frank."
There was a less cordial feeling on Lady Anne’s ​side, or rather she secretly disliked and feared him. Though some years younger than Mr. Granard, their friendship was strong and sincere: and to Mr. Glentworth's remonstrances both to herself and to her husband may be ascribed Lady Anne's distaste; she had also a natural dislike to all who were poor, and this had long been the case with Mr. Glentworth. He had been brought up as the heir to a large fortune, but when his father died his affairs were found greatly embarrassed. Frank's own share was protected by the entail which ended in himself. He did not hesitate a moment, but sold the estate and paid every shilling; though by so doing he left himself only a narrow income, and offended an uncle from whom he had great expectations, the said uncle not liking to see the estate go out of the family, and yet refusing to make any advance towards clearing it. In the very prime of life, Mr. Glentworth found every prospect gone; he had only a meagre pittance, compared to his former expenditure; but he had neither the habits nor the opportunity of increasing it. It was too late to think of a profession, and he had lived too many years in indolence and luxury to begin now with business and exertion: cut off from his former sources of pleasure, he fell back upon himself; most people forgot him; the few who remembered said "he was grown so odd!"
In the mean time, he lived strictly within his income; did many kind, even generous things; and, ​during the course of his travels, obtained sufficient experience to form an advantageous commercial connection with a house at Marseilles. This gave him employment and independence, and above all things enabled him to look forward. When he thought of England, it was always in connection with his friend Granard's orphan family, and now that he was coming, his first letter was to them.
"And what do you think brings Mr. Glentworth to London?" asked Lady Anne.
"Business," replied Isabella.
"Business!" exclaimed her mother; "you learnt that odious word from the Palmers; indeed, he is a great deal too rich to think of business. Heartily ashamed will he now be of that horrid connection he has formed somewhere abroad; not that I ever understand those sort of things. I wonder that he could not live like a gentleman quietly in London."
"You forget, mamma," returned Isabella, "that you always told us he was very poor; though I am sure no one would think it from the presents he used to send us."
"Very odd," replied Lady Anne, "how fond he always was of you all—a lucky thing now. But only think, that tiresome Mr. Glentworth, who would die while we were at Brighton, is our Mr. Glentworth's old uncle, who has left him all his money."
"How glad I am!" was the universal exclamation.
"How foolish of us," exclaimed Georgiana, "to be ​so sorry for Mr. Glentworth's death! I have heard Fanchette say he was immensely rich."
"Mr. Frank," continued Lady Anne, "has asked himself to dine here to-morrow."
"How very delightful!" cried Isabella.
"How very provoking!" interrupted her mother; "he might just as well have called in the morning."
"I do not think," said Mary, "that Mr. Glentworth will trouble his head much about his dinner; he must have altered very much if he does."
"What a bad habit you have, Mary," cried Lady Anne, "of remembering what happened so long ago! However, perhaps Mr. Glentworth may be flattered by it. But the question now is, what shall we do about dinner? I dare say Mrs. Palmer will lend us things."
The girls all coloured simultaneously, but only Isabella had courage to answer. "Is there any necessity, mamma, for our borrowing any thing?"
"A very great necessity," replied Lady Anne. "Mr. Glenworth used to dine with us at Granard Park, and I have no idea of his looking down upon us now."
"I am sure," cried Isabella, "that he is much too kind to do that; I don't think that he would care how poor we were."
"We owe it," replied Lady Anne, "to ourselves to ‘keep up appearances.' I shall write myself to Mrs. Palmer. Of course, she will be flattered by my asking a favour." The girls looked aghast one at the other
"I am sure," said Isabella, "if I were as rude to ​Mrs. Palmer as mamma is, I could die before I could ask a favour of her." This speech was unheard, as Lady Anne was busy, writing to her opposite neighbour the following note:—
"Dear madam—I am just hurried out of my life by the unexpected arrival of an old friend of our family's, who has just come into his uncle, Mr. Glentworth's property, and a visit to England has become necessary. He dines with us to-morrow; and, what with my sudden arrival from Brighton, and one thing or other, we are in utter confusion. May I rely on your kindness to supply our deficiencies in plate, china, &c? Perhaps also you will allow your cook to give mine some instructions. It is of such vital importance to the dear children's interests, that Mr. Glentworth should be conciliated, that I know you will be interested in our behalf. I shall send two of the girls over with this petit billet to receive your instructions.
"Yours, dear Mrs. Palmer, "Most truly, "Anne Granard."
The note was written in a delicate hand with a crow-quill, on primrose-coloured paper, with a lilac seal—the motto "tout à vous;" and the whole with just a faint perfume of jasmine. It was, as Lady Anne said, "perfectly irresistible. You will take this note at once," she added, addressing Georgiana and Isabella.
"Oh! mamma," cried the latter, "could you not send the page?"
​ "He has to go to a dozen places; besides," continued Lady Anne, "you will manage the business much better, and bring me word what Mrs. Palmer thinks we shall want." From this there was no appeal; but the heroine, in the old ballad of Barbara Allen, when
"So slowly she put on her clothes,
 "So slowly she drew nigh him,"
could not have set off on her errand more reluctantly than the two Misses Granard crossed the street. They gave a low uncertain rap at the door; were kept waiting in consequence, during which time they suffered a little agony of anticipation, and at last found themselves in the drawing-room, which they usually entered with such alacrity. Fortunately, Mrs. Palmer was so employed with her dumb pets, that she had no time to notice her speaking ones beyond her usual kind greeting. "Just come," said she, "as I wanted you. There, Georgiana, you can hold my Java sparrow; he knows you, and Isabella will hold the cage." The changing the seeds and putting fresh water took up enough time to allow the visitors to recover themselves a little. But the moment they drew quietly round the fire, Mrs. Palmer saw that there was something the matter. They were first absent, then began to speak hurriedly, and yet broke off abruptly.
"What is the matter with you?" at last exclaimed she, suddenly.
"Nothing," said Georgiana.
​ "Only," replied Helen, "only that we have a note from mamma to give you."
"And why do you not give it to me?" asked Mrs. Palmer.
"Because.........' said both at once but neither finished the sentence; however, Isabella gave the note, which Mrs. Palmer, having first found her spectacles, duly read.
"There is nothing in this note about yourselves," said the kind old lady, "so, before I answer it, tell me what is the matter with you."
"Nothing but the note," replied Georgiana.
"I will conceal nothing," said Isabella, firmly; "we feared that you might not be pleased with mamma's note. It seemed that we were too ready to take advantage of your kindness."
"It would not be your doing then, my dears," answered Mrs. Palmer; "but we ought to be glad, as good christians, to help one another, if it be only in the lending a few silver spoons. I'll tell you the truth, my dears, and that may be blamed, but it can't be shamed. I don't like your mamma, and she looks down upon me; which of us is right is no business of ours just now. But I would do any thing I could to oblige her, if it were only for your sakes; so you may give her my best compliments; or stay, as she wrote me a note, I will write her one. Nothing is so rude as to send a verbal message." Mrs. Palmer then wrote her note, while the young people felt more and more ​at home, as she employed them in some little office of assistance. They mended her a pen, which exactly suited her hand; they folded the note and sealed it, first reading it aloud for their approval:—
"Mrs. Palmer's best compliments (I did not say dear madam, for I do not feel it) to Lady Anne Granard, and begs to say that any thing she has is quite at her service. Perhaps she will allow her to send over the cook and butler for to-morrow: and Mrs. Palmer only hopes that Lady Anne Granard will do her the favour of mentioning any little service, which it will be a real pleasure to offer.
"And now, dears, go home at once. I suppose I must not hope to see you to-morrow, but the next day you must come and tell me how the dinner went off."
"We will give you," said Isabella, "a full and particular account of uncle Frank."
"You should say Mr. Glentworth," exclaimed Georgiana. "You know mamma said it would make him feel so old to have us call him uncle; and, do you know, I am quite sure that she means him to marry Mary."
Mrs. Palmer shook her head, and Isabella reminded her sister that mamma would be waiting. At the hall door they were met by Helen, for a moment so eager to tell her news, that she forgot to ask the result of their embassy.
"Who do you think has just driven through the street?"
​ "Mr. Glentworth," exclaimed the girls.
"No, no, our beautiful stranger," replied she.
"Are you quite sure?" cried Isabella, her dark eyes kindling with delight.
"I saw her returned, Helen, as distinctly as I see you. I tried to catch her eye, but in vain." ‘
"Oh, what would I not give to see her again!" said Isabella. The beautiful stranger, as with girlish romance they called her among themselves, was the only mystery in their brief and uneventful lives. When Isabella was ten and Georgiana two years older, they formed an acquaintance on the sands near Brighton with a lady, who, like themselves, seemed to confine her rambles to the most solitary part of the coast. The fact was, that Lady Anne, aware of the worse than common attire of the younger children, always ordered them to be kept out of sight as much as possible. Still, they were too pretty to need the aid of dress, and the stranger, attracted by their appearance, formed an acquaintance with them: two or three times they went to her small, but elegant-looking villa, where cakes and fruit always awaited them. A careless phrase of Georgiana's drew Lady Anne's attention to the matter; the maid was questioned, and divers suspicions, very unfavourable to their beautiful and secluded hostess, entered the minds of both maid and mistress. The intercourse was strictly forbidden, and for some mornings they walked in an opposite direction.
​ The first time that they took their accustomed stroll, they met the lady walking slowly along. The moment she caught sight of the children, she came eagerly forward, but was met, to her great surprise, by reserve, though it was mixed with an obvious wish to speak. At that moment the servant said pertly, "You were told, young ladies, that your mamma does not approve of your speaking to nobody knows who."
"Is that all?" said the lady, with her own peculiar sad smile. "I will not detain you now; but this evening I will write to Lady Anne, and I dare say that she will allow you to come and drink tea with me." The note came; what its contents were Lady Anne kept to herself, but the children received permission to spend the afternoon with Mrs. Cranstoun. For two successive years the acquaintance continued. Mrs. Cranstoun remained for a couple of months every autumn in the same villa, and the three younger girls were more there than at home. An old Scotch lady, grave, silent, and even stern in her manner, was the only living creature they ever saw besides the servants. Every thing indicated wealth; books, music, flowers, and the pretty trifles scattered round were all of the most expensive kind, and their hostess was young, and singularly beautiful, but some mystery there certainly was.
What could induce one so formed for society to live in such entire seclusion! Children as the Granards were, they understood that there was something a ​little out of the ordinary course, in their acquaintance, but the very mystery gave its charm—it was the one touch of poetry in their usually prosaic existence—and Mrs. Cranstoun was the very being about whom to imagine a romance. Slight and delicately formed, her figure was as childish as that of her young companions, but her movements lacked the buoyancy of youth; they were slow and languid, though graceful to a degree, that an artist might have studied. All that the girls knew of her was that she was born in Italy; and she had the pale complexion, whose dazzling whiteness was unbroken by the rose, and the large black eyes which mark southern beauty. She looked very young, but there was that about her, which told that time had not passed lightly over her; her years might be few, but they had been marked by those sorrows which steal sunshine from the eyes. A perpetual shadow seemed to weigh down those long dark eyelashes, as if heavy with the weight of unshed tears; and the lip had the sweetness of a smile, but not its gaiety.
She clung to the lovely children, as those cling to any interest that breaks upon a life otherwise monotonous. Their cheerfulness was the sunshine; she did not join in it, but she liked to see it. It never occurred to her to offer her young guests the amusements usual to their age, but she shared her own with them. They would sit whole mornings in the drawing-room, from whence daylight was carefully ​excluded, only a chance sunbeam, as the wind waved the blind to and fro, wandered over the various exotics which filled the air with perfume. Amenaide, for such was her name, would recline on a pile of cushions in the midst of the little group, one of whom would read aloud, gradually learning to imitate the low melancholy tones with which she herself read.
The girls acquired more knowledge of English imaginative literature, than in the whole previous course of their lives, and when the book was closed, and they talked over the just finished poem or narrative, insensibly the taste was formed, for that of their guide was exquisite. Amenaide was one of those beings on whom nature, like a fairy, lavishes her best gifts of keen sensibility, a fine perception of the beautiful, and an intuitive feeling of the right. Perhaps her views of life were too morbid, but her companions had enough cheerfulness to counterbalance any undue tinge of sadness given by one who had obviously suffered much. Then—for they had all the sweet voice, and fine-toned ear, which must be a charmed birthright, as no art can ever give it—they delighted to catch from her the Scottish and Italian airs, which she sang with an expression, the very meaning of their wild melody.
She would often talk to them of Italy and India, but with her childhood her remembrances seemed to stop; she never talked of any other portion of her life. Neglected and unloved, as these worse than orphan ​girls appeared to be, it was strange how friends sprang up for them. Mrs. Palmer was their good genius in common life, while Amenaide was the fairy that led them through the charmed regions of romance, and of music. It was curious to mark the attraction that invariably seems to exist between opposite natures. Helen, the most enthusiastic, the most highly-toned of the family, was the favourite with the practical and sober-minded Mrs. Palmer; while Isabella, the more shrewd, sensible, and firm, was the favourite with the romantic and pensive stranger—and devotedly was her attachment repaid. Always kept in the background, and undervalued by Lady Anne, who disliked the spirit of active usefulness which characterized her youngest daughter, this was the first time that Isabella had been loved for herself; and she requited it—as love is returned in youth, and youth only—grateful, eager, and undoubting.
It was now two years since they had seen her; the villa had been let for the last two autumns to other occupants. Deep had been the disappointment, when, turning their steps in the accustomed direction, they saw the quiet and secluded cottage, where hours had passed like a dream of poetry, a scene of noise and bustle. The blinds were drawn up, the plants removed from the steps, and the lawn occupied by some six or seven children, who, if they came to Brighton for their health, had, at all events, a good stock on hand to begin with. From that time they had heard ​nothing more of their beautiful stranger, till Helen caught sight of her, driving past. For a few moments even Mrs. Palmer's reception of Lady Anne's note was forgotten, and it was not till they heard her bell ring violently, that Isabella recollected that she still held the important missive in her hand.
The next day was one of constant hurry and anxiety. In all places, and under all places and circumstances, (English places and circumstances) the dinner is the most important event—the epoch of the day, the first care of the morning, the last satisfaction of night. Modern history might be told by a succession of dinners; to-day, a dinner commemorates reform; to-morrow the reverse. Now O'Connell appeals to the sympathies of his hearers at Birmingham on behalf of the finest and most ill-used peasantry on earth: then three courses and a desert are served up in Sir Robert Peel's honour, by the Merchant Tailors' Company. But dinners are not only charged with the fate of "Caesar, and of Rome:" they also belong to the usual routine of existence. The cook is the most important person in the household—the master's temper, the mistress's comfort depend upon her—every thing else revolves in an axis around five, six, seven o'clock, or whatever may be the appointed hour for sounding "that tocsin of the heart, the dinner-bell." So much for every day; but, when to the word dinner is added the word party, great is the tumult thereof. Even where servants are many, and ​"expense no object," it is a consideration: the master feels that his credit is at stake; and, as no dinner is given without a motive, on its success depends also the success of his scheme.
But, of all cases, the most extreme is where the party is out of the common course of things. Now no one could it be so far removed from the ordinary current of existence as at Lady Anne's. It had literally never happened before; none could recollect the fact of a friend having even lunched there. Lady Anne gave over-night orders upon orders, but the next day they were left to be executed by five inexperienced girls, a boy, and a kitchen-maid. Here Mrs. Palmer's forethought stood them in good stead; her cook was sent over the first thing, who seemed not a little alarmed at the poverty of the land. However, she had been strictly enjoined to make the best of every thing, and her own kitchen was close at hand, while she knew that in the course of the morning a basket of game and fruit, &c. would arrive, veiled under the pretext that Mrs. Palmer had just received them herself from the country.
"I do not believe," said Lady Anne, as she took her last look in the glass, at the result of her careful toilette, "that Mr. Glentworth will find me much altered, and yet it is twelve years since I saw him." She certainly looked very handsome: the black velvet dress set off her still fair skin, the blonde filled up any angles, the few pink flowers in the cap gave it ​lightness, while its being somewhat close, concealed that the cheek was less rounded than of yore, and, though the whole costume was exquisitely becoming, no one could say that it affected youthfulness. Lady Anne had too good taste for that. Still, any one who knew her not, might have thought, from the unusual care and pains bestowed on her appearance, that she herself meditated a conquest of their visiter. They would have been wrong in their surmise; Lady Anne was too intensely selfish herself, to suspect any one of being otherwise. Poor, with five unportioned daughters, no one could think of such a folly as marrying her. Her attention to the toilette of to-day had for motive the long habit of personal vanity, and a wish to show how little twelve years had altered her.
Not but what she had her own castle building, but it was with reference—she had decided that it would be the most proper thing in the world for Mr. Glentworth to marry Mary. She remembered him a grave silent young man, Mary was grave and silent too. She had never liked him, but that was of little moment now; Mary could not afford to be particular, she ought only to be thankful for such a chance.
"Mary," said her mother, on entering the drawing-room, where the elder girls were employed in those slight decorations which female taste knows so well how to give, "I beg that you will not over fatigue yourself; go and lie down on the sofa in my room. Fanchette will come to you when it is time for you to dress."
​ Mary obeyed in wondering silence, which was increased when the French soubriette obviously taxed her abilities to the utmost; she had received full instructions from her mistress. "Dress her hair in loose falling curls, they will best conceal the thinness of her face, and put in a nœud or two coulour de rose to lighten her up a little, and Fanchette, just give one touch of rouge."
"What time," asked Louisa, "do you expect Mr. Glentworth?"
"Not till dinner," replied her mother, "which is exceedingly lucky; a man is always in better humour when he has had his dinner. By the by, Isabella, I do not see any necessity for your making your appearance; you will be supposed in the schoolroom, and Georgiana must wear the white muslin frock. You can make yourself very useful, as some one must see to the dessert being properly sent up, and, as I mean to have tea and coffee made out of the room, you must help Fanchette."
Isabella felt more disappointed than she liked to express. Uncle Frank was associated with so many kind notes and pretty presents, that she had a natural and affectionate wish to see him; moreover, she could not but feel keenly the difference always made between herself and the others.
"Oh, mamma," cried Georgiana, and the speech was heroic for her who dearly loved dress, "I would rather wear my merino, and then I should keep Isabella in countenance."
​ "I wish," said Lady Anne, "that my daughters would not take the trouble of thinking for me—I have settled the matter as I think best. I cannot imagine why I should be so unlucky as to have so many girls; it is really too provoking."
"I wonder what Uncle Frank is like?" said Isabella.
"I fancy him," replied Georgiana, "in a brown coat and wig."
"I dare say," continued Lady Anne, "that he has got all sorts of odd ways and habits; but you must none of you mind them. He is now rich enough to have a style of his own. Be sure you contrive to let him know that we usually dine early—I want him to acquire a habit of spending his evenings here; but a dinner every day would be too much of a good thing—we should be ruined in a week."
"I have borrowed Mrs. Palmer's backgammon-board," said Isabella, whose notion of an elderly gentleman's amusements of an evening was derived from what she had seen Mr. Palmer do.
"Backgammon!" exclaimed her mother, with an expression of sovereign contempt; "had you not better have asked for a cribbage-board while you were about it?"
Seven o'clock came; all the girls, excepting poor Isabella, were assembled in the drawing-room, and it would have been difficult to find a prettier coup d'œil, or one arranged with a better eye to effect. Lady ​Anne was in the arm-chair, and Louisa was seated a little behind her; Mary was opposite, and a seat most conveniently vacant beside her; while the two younger girls were placed on a low ottoman in the middle. A rap at the door made them all start—Isabella afterwards confessed that she had peeped through the back parlour door as he went upstairs—and Mr. Glentworth made his appearance. He took all the young ladies completely by surprise—if he had turned five and thirty he did not look it; and Uncle Frank, instead of an odd-looking individual in a brown coat and wig, was a tall and handsome man, pale, and with a shade of melancholy, which only gave interest to his fine features.
Lady Anne could not but allow that, if years had passed lightly over herself, they had passed still more lightly over him, to say nothing of his being some few years younger. He was altered from the shy, silent young man who used to spend morning after morning with Mr. Granard in the library, to Lady Anne's equal displeasure and surprise—for a young cavalier would often have been an addition to her parties, and it was to her incomprehensible what amusement could be found in books or in her husband's society. The alteration was, however, one of improvement: his manner had the ease of one accustomed to make his own way in every kind of society, and his air was singularly distingué. Lady Anne's first idea was regret that she had wasted any care upon Mary's ​appearance, who was looking, if possible, worse than usual. "Such a man, and such a fortune," thought her ladyship, "may marry whom he pleases;" and, contrary to her original plan, she determined that Louisa and Georgiana should sit next him at dinner.
Certainly the idea of falling in love with those whom he had never thought of but as children never crossed Mr. Glentworth, as he at once said, laughing, and averred that he was taken quite by surprise to find himself among so many lovely young women; but he greeted them with that easy affection which showed he intended to retain his footing as an old friend of the family, and was the first to go back upon his old appellation of Uncle Frank. "But here are only four," said he; "where is the fifth?"
"Isabella does not dine with us, except when we take our early dinner alone," replied Lady Anne.
"I had hoped to have seen all my young friends together;" but Mr. Glentworth was interrupted by the announcement of dinner, where Lady Anne, by two or three quiet manœuvres, contrived to make her daughters understand that the arrangements which she had so carefully impressed upon their minds, were to be broken. Mr. Glentworth took the foot of the table, and Louisa and Georgiana sat on either side. The dinner went off very well, though there was a degree of restraint. With all the graceful ease of Lady Anne’s manners, they never encouraged any spontaneous flow of feeling or of thought—you felt intuitively ​that feeling or thought would be de trop. Between the hostess and the guest there was an old animosity. Young as he was at the time, he had seen the imprudence of Mr. Granard's way of living; he had often remonstrated, and the death of his father, with the subsequent derangement of his affairs, had alone prevented his following up his advice with such assistance as would have made it effectual.
Lady Anne smothered her dislike, because there was a hope of his marrying one of her daughters; and he subdued his because he could not allow it to interfere with his hope of serving the orphans of his old friend. The very dinner increased his anxiety—he saw that it was infinitely beyond Lady Anne's means; the same course of extravagance was therefore still being renewed, with the same disregard of consequences. The girls themselves interested him on their own account, not only for the nameless charm of youth and loveliness, but there was something natural and sweet about them, which he could hardly have believed possible in Lady Anne's daughters.
Still the conversation languished; Lady Anne was most unnecessarily anxious to impress upon Mr. Glentworth the success that they had met with in society, and that, if no longer rich, they were still the fashion. The girls were always restrained in their mother's presence; unconsciously they had learned that any display of feeling only excited her scorn, and they had acquired a habit of silence, because they had ​so little in common to talk about. However, when dinner was over, Mr. Glentworth pleaded his continental habits, and accompanied them at once to the drawing-room; and there his first inquiry was after Isabella.
"Oh," replied Lady Anne, "she is too young to be introduced."
"Surely not to such an old friend as myself; pray let me ask to see her," said their guest.
"The next time," exclaimed her mother; "Isabella, not expecting a summons, will only be in the schoolroom toilette."
"My dear madam," cried Mr. Glentworth, "I wish to see herself, not her frock. I am sure my young friend here will go and fetch her sister without further delay."
Georgiana sprang up eagerly, and, Lady Anne having given an ungracious permission, bounded down stairs, and found that Isabella had just finished making the tea.
"You must come upstairs at once," exclaimed Georgiana, "Mr. Glentworth insists upon seeing you; you will like him so much; oh, I do wish you had any thing on but that old brown merino."
"I do not think it matters much," said Isabella, laughing.
"Why Mr. Glentworth did say," returned her sister, "that it was you he wanted to see, not your frock."
​ "In that case, the sooner he sees me the better;" and both sisters ran up stairs, duly composing themselves into a slow and graceful entrance before they ventured to appear before their mother. Mr. Glentworth was surprised to see the tall and elegant girl who was summoned from the schoolroom, and, in spite of the old brown merino dress, Isabella never looked prettier. The careless banding back of the hair only showed the fine shape of the head; pleasure at being remembered lighted up her clear dark eyes; and a little touch of natural shyness made her colour most becomingly when introduced.
The evening passed off very gaily, for music broke up the formality of the circle, while the books and drawings scattered about led to some conversation, in which Mr. Glentworth talked of the various parts of Europe he had visited; Lady Anne secretly wondering what could take any one anywhere but to the capitals, while the girls were delighted to hear of rocks and valleys, and were only divided in favour between the Appenines and the Pyrennees. When he rose to take leave, Lady Anne expressed her hope, couched in the most flattering terms, that they should soon see him again.
"May I then," said Mr. Glentworth, "place myself at once on the footing of l'amie de la maison, and come in and out just as I please? I am the worst person in the world for formal dinners, but I shall be thankful to have a resting-place whereon to bestow my tediousness in an evening."
​ This was the very thing which Lady Anne wished, and a most gracious permission ensued.
"It is a great misfortune," said her ladyship, with a deep sigh, as the door closed after their visitor, "to have so many daughters—a man hardly knows which he likes best among them; still I do not despair—it is a great point to have secured his constant visits."