Sir Francis condescended to smile. "Don't be waxy, Clara!" he urged--"I mean what I say--a new Helen appeared here to-day, and instead of 'tall Troy' being on fire, as Dante Rossetti puts it, the Row was in a burning condition of excitement--fellows on horseback galloped the whole length of the Park to take a last glimpse of her--her carriage dashed off to Richmond after taking only four turns. She is simply magnificent!"
"Who is she?" and in spite of herself, Lady Winsleigh's smile vanished and her lips quivered.
"Lady Bruce-Errington," answered Sir Francis readily. "The loveliest woman in the world, I should say! Phil was beside her--he looks in splendid condition--and that meek old secretary fellow sat opposite--Neville--isn't that his name? Anyhow they seemed as jolly as pipers,--as for that woman, she'll drive everybody out of their wits about her before half the season's over."
"But she's a mere peasant!" said Mrs. Marvelle loftily. "Entirely uneducated--a low, common creature!"
"Ah, indeed!" and Sir Francis again yawned extensively. "Well, I don't know anything about that! She was exquisitely dressed, and she held herself like a queen. As for her hair--I never saw such wonderful hair,--there's every shade of gold in it."
"Dyed!" said Lady Winsleigh, with a sarcastic little laugh. "She's been in Paris,--I dare say a good coiffeur has done it for her there artistically!"
This time Sir Francis's smile was a thoroughly amused one.
"Commend me to a woman for spite!" he said carelessly. "But I'll not presume to contradict you, Clara! You know best, I dare say! Ta-ta! I'll come for you to-night,--you know we're bound for the theatre together. By-bye, Mrs. Marvelle! You look younger than ever!"
And Sir Francis Lennox sauntered easily away, leaving the ladies to resume their journey through the Park. Lady Winsleigh looked vexed--Mrs. Marvelle bewildered.
"Do you think," inquired this latter, "she can really be so wonderfully lovely?"
"No, I don't!" answered Clara snappishly. "I dare say she's a plump creature with a high color--men like fat women with brick-tinted complexions--they think it's healthy. Helen of Troy indeed! Pooh! Lennie must be crazy."
The rest of their drive was very silent,-they were both absorbed in their own reflections. On arriving at the Van Clupps', they found no one at home--not even Marcia--so Lady Winsleigh drove her "dearest Mimsey" back to her own house in Kensington, and there left her with many expressions of tender endearment--then, returning home, proceeded to make an elaborate and brilliant toilette for the enchantment and edification of Sir Francis Lennox that evening. She dined alone, and was ready for her admirer when he called for her in his private hansom, and drove away with him to the theatre, where she was the cynosure of many eyes; meanwhile her husband, Lord Winsleigh, was pressing a good-night kiss on the heated forehead of an excited boy, who, plunging about in his little bed and laughing heartily, was evidently desirous of emulating the gambols of the clown who had delighted him that afternoon at Hengler's.