a word, and had scarcely eaten a morsel during dinner, studied the
sisters with serious eyes. Only when she turned them from the Countess
to Mrs. Strike, they were softened by a shadowy drooping of the eyelids,
as if for some reason she deeply pitied that lady.

Next to Rose sat Drummond, with a face expressive of cynical enjoyment.
He devoted uncommon attention to the Countess, whom he usually shunned
and overlooked. He invited her to exchange bows over wine, in the
fashion of that day, and the Countess went through the performance with
finished grace and ease. Poor Andrew had all the time been brushing back
his hair, and making strange deprecatory sounds in his throat, like a man
who felt bound to assure everybody at table he was perfectly happy and
comfortable.

'Material enough for a Sartoriad,' said Drummond to Lady Jocelyn.

'Excellent. Pray write it forthwith, Drummond', replied her ladyship;
and as they exchanged talk unintelligible to the Countess, this lady
observed to the Duke:

'It is a relief to have buried that subject.'

The Duke smiled, raising an eyebrow; but the persecuted Countess
perceived she had been much too hasty when Drummond added,

'I'll make a journey to Lymport in a day or two, and master his history.'

'Do,' said her ladyship; and flourishing her hand, '"I sing the Prince of
Snobs!"'