Lesbia's presentation was over, and had realised all Lady Kirkbank's
expectations. The Society papers were unanimous in pronouncing Lord
Maulevrier's sister the prettiest _débutante_ of the season. They
praised her classical features, the admirable poise of her head, her
peerless complexion. They described her dress at the drawing-room; they
described her 'frocks' in the Park and at Sandown. They expatiated on
the impression she had made at great assemblies. They hinted at even
Royal admiration. All this, frivolous fribble though it might be, Lady
Maulevrier read with delight, and she was still more gratified by
Lesbia's own account of her successes. But as the season advanced
Lesbia's letters to her grandmother grew briefer--mere hurried scrawls
dashed off while the carriage was at the door, or while her maid was
brushing her hair. Lady Maulevrier divined, with the keen instinct of
love, that she counted for very little in Lesbia's life, now that the
whirligig of society, the fret and fever of fashion, had begun.

One afternoon in May, at that hour when Hyde Park is fullest, and the
carriages move slowly in triple rank along the Lady's Mile, and the
mounted constables jog up and down with a business-like air which sets
every one on the alert for the advent of the Princess of Wales, just at
that hour when Lesbia sat in Lady Kirkbank's barouche, and distributed
gracious bows and enthralling smiles to her numerous acquaintance, Mary
rode slowly down the Fell, after a rambling ride on the safest and most
venerable of mountain ponies. The pony was grey, and Mary was grey, for
she wore a neat little homespun habit made by the local tailor, and a
neat little felt hat with, a ptarmigan's feather.

All was very quiet at Fellside as she went in at the stable gate. There
was not an underling stirring in the large old stable-yard which had
remained almost unaltered for a century and a half; for Lady Maulevrier,