"Whose--Ethel's?"

"Your child-angel's people."

"No. What do I care about her people? They might be Jews or
Patagonians for all I care."

"Still I should think your interest in her would make you ask."

"Oh no; my interest refers to herself, not to her relatives. Her
sister Ethel is certainly a deuced pretty girl, though."

"Sconey, my boy, I'm afraid you're getting demoralized. Why, I
remember the time when you regarded the whole female race with a lofty
scorn and a profound indifference that was a perpetual rebuke to more
inflammable natures. But now what a change! Here you are, with a
finely developed eye for female beauty, actually reveling in dreams of
child-angels and their sisters. By Jove!"

"Nonsense," said Dacres.

"Well, drive on, and tell all about it. You've seen her, of course?"

"Oh yes."

"Did you call?"

"Yes; she was not at home. I went away with a snubbed and subdued
feeling, and rode along near the Villa Reale, when suddenly I met the
carriage with Lady Dalrymple and the child-angel. She knew me at once,