changed ever so slightly as he replied:

"Oh yes, she knows. As soon as the others got back Mrs. Watton went up to
tell her. She didn't show at lunch."

"Mrs. Watton came to tell _me_--naughty man!" said the lady whom George
had addressed as his mother, tapping the speaker on the arm with her fan.
"Mothers first, if you please, especially when they're cripples like me,
and can't go and see their dear darlings' triumphs with their own eyes.
And _I_ told Miss Sewell."

She put her head on one side, and looked archly at her son. Her high
gown, a work of the most approved Parisian art, was so cut as to show
much more throat than usual, and, in addition, a row of very fine pearls.
Her very elegant waist and bust were defined by a sort of Empire sash;
her complexion did her maid and, indeed, her years, infinite credit.

George flushed slightly at his mother's words, and was turning away from
her when he was gripped by the owner of the house, Squire Watton, an
eloquent and soft-hearted old gentleman who, having in George's opinion
already overdone it greatly at the town-hall in the way of hand-shaking
and congratulations, was now most unreasonably prepared to overdo it
again. Lady Tressady joined in with little shrieks and sallies, the other
guests of the house gathered round, and the hero of the day was once
more lost to sight and hearing amid the general hubbub of talk and
laughter--for the young man in knickerbockers, at any rate, who stood a
little way off from the rest.

"I wonder when she'll condescend to come down," he said to himself,
examining his boots with a speculative smile. "Of course it was mere