gaunt, famished quadrupeds, who, in the drought of summer, were still
left to look for the mockery of subsistence on the bare, parched ground.

It was a cheerful party gathered round the tea-table, quite lavishly set
forth in honour of the guest. Scones and tea cakes were plenteously
saturated with butter, regardless of its winter price (the old ladies
would breakfast on bread and scrape the rest of the week with
uncomplaining self-denial), and a heavy plum cake formed the _piêce de
resistance_.

Trove, for olfactory reasons, was accommodated with his share on a rug
in the passage. Bluebell was the chief talker, with her week's arrears
of news. Captain du Meresq's arrival created a little buzz of interest.

"Is he handsome?" asked Mrs. Leigh, sentimentally, whose thoughts had
flown back to earlier days.

Bluebell looked up with an odd, perplexed glance. "Upon my word, I don't
know."

"Ah! there were more good-looking people in my day," said her mother.
"There was Captain Fletcher, in your poor father's regiment, the
handsomest man that was ever seen,--fresh-coloured, with golden whiskers,
and long, drooping moustache. All we girls were wild about him. Is
Captain Du Meresq at all like that?"

"Not in the least. I can't describe him--fine-shaped head, such strange
eyes. Oh! I dare say you would think him hideous," with a conscious
laugh.