Ir was the middle of the season, and London was full, and hot, and gay. Both opera-houses were open, and Louisa Pyne on the boards of the one was proving those people mistaken who look down on English opera, and becoming a formidable rival to the Italian prima donna who made melody on the boards of the other. In addition to the new star, who was neither fascinating little Piccolomini nor pretty Patti, dear, stately, handsome Grisi was in London giving her last weeks and last nights, and not having the heart happily to go after all. And Mario, that matchless Don Giovanni, and the golden-throated tenor alternated with each other in charming and ravishing the musical public. And concerts were daily, and exhibitions of pictures of the old and new Italian and Flemish school were many. And the Sydenham Palace was rushing into all kinds of extravagancies in the way of flower-shows, presenting of colours, festivals, concerts, and bazaars. And the debates of the session were interesting enough to excite the members when there, and to send them away to balls and conversaziones animated and brilliant. And the whitebait had arrived at perfection, and Mr. Hart and Mr. Quartermaine were meeting the constant calls upon them with their accustomed admirable promptitude and energy, when Mrs. Knightly and her family returned to town after their season of sad seclusion and retirement.

Mrs. Knightly was back in the Piccadilly mansion. She had said to Gerald that she should perhaps go and live in Harley Street; and Gerald had told her he thought it would be a very good move' and a very proper course to pursue; 'For,' said he, when Rupert and Georgie are married you see, mother, they must live here of course, and I don't

approve of the whole family being quartered together.' Gerald's prompt acquiescence in her proposed scheme was not altogether pleasing to Mrs. Knightly.

There was a delightful and select small reception at Mrs. Vining's in May Fair. Mrs. Vining had the prettiest and best-arranged drawingrooms in London, said her friends, and they were not very far out in their assertion. Anything more conducive to ease and conversation than the ordering of those little rooms, furnished in amber-coloured silk rep, it is impossible to conceive. Every one grew fluent in Mrs. Vining's house. Some people said it was owing to Vining having such good wine; others to the best people always being there; others to the lounges and chairs being freely arranged; but the real cause was to be found in the bright, never-failing vivacity of the host and hostess.

The best people did not mean, in the Vining vocabulary, those with the loudest titles and longest purses, though there were many of these there; for Mrs. Vining was the daughter of a nobleman who, as the song says, 'had been naturally mild, till he found his only child had been bothered and beguiled by an Irish hussar.' Harry Vining was the gayest, and brightest, and best-looking of Irish hussars; and as the father of his wife soon forgave him for having carried off his daughter from wealthier suitors, the pair rapidly succeeded in making the little house in May Fair one of the most attractive in London, and collecting around them at these weekly receptions many a celebrity as well as many an aspirant for honours in literature and art. The time passed at Mrs. Vining's Wednesdays was one sparkle.

Mrs. Vining herself was a pretty

little woman of the very dashing order; but then this manner was tempered by such very high breeding that you never had the fear of its degenerating into fastness. She was the particular friend of that Georgie Clifford of whom mention has been made; and this evening Georgie was here, and Mrs. Vining had been vainly trying to get speech of her for a long time, but had not been able to manage it in consequence of the constant claims on her attention as a polite hostess.

Miss Clifford was just what Georgies nearly always are very pretty, very piquant, rather small, and rather clever; altogether a very brilliant and very warm-hearted little individual. A universal favourite, courted, and flattered, and openly admired, she was neither a flirt nor a fool. She liked admiration, and she had a great deal of it; but she did not think the finest and most glorious thing in the world was to cause a fellow-creature's heart to ache; consequently, though this admiration very frequently ripened into love, to her honour be it said, it never afterwards changed to hate and contempt. Amongst all the men who had sighed for her love, and sued for her hand, there was not one whom Georgie Clifford could not have claimed as a friend. She had never been guilty of the baseness of telling and boasting about the offers she had received; of meanly trading upon former successes to enhance her value in the eyes of others. No; Georgie Clifford was the soul of honour.

People did not dress much at Mrs. Vining's Wednesdays. Those ladies who went there for the evening went in demi-toilette. There were some who looked in on their way from a dinner-party or to a ball, and these, of course, came resplendent with gleaming shoulders and horticultural heads. But as a rule people did not dress much. And yet surely elegance in demi-toilette is a thing which it costs as much artistic consideration to attain as does the fullest dress. The most critical-and there were many authorities in the critical world of art present-were ready to allow that artistic considerations had

presided at Miss Clifford's toilet on this especial Wednesday evening.

I have called her a pretty girl; but that is an extremely marginal phrase. She was a sparkling brunette; but by this I do not mean that she had sharp black eyes and a vivid complexion. Not at all. Her

eyes were not black, and though bright and clear they were very far from being sharp; and her complexion was faulty in the extreme, in the eyes of those who can only admire white foreheads and clearly-defined roseate hues in the cheeks. Georgie's face was of a uniform creamy-brown tint by day, lighting up at night into that dazzling whiteness which is so often seen in Italian faces. She looked sweetly, her friend Mrs. Vining thought, as she stood in the corner balancing her head against the wall, her soft black hair turned back lightly in elastic waves from her pretty little face, and her rounded, graceful figure robed in a high transparent pale-blue dress, with a quantity of rich white lace edging the front of the body and sleeves. was rather clever, and talked well; and, above all, she had that gorgeous cloak for all deficiencies, an inimitable manner. For about a year and a half she had been betrothed to Rupert Knightly, and it was of Rupert Knightly that Mrs. Vining was eager to speak this evening.

She

SO

Where is Mr. Knightly, Georgie, do you know?' she asked, ruthlessly interrupting a young artist who was imploring Miss Clifford to come to his studio the following day with Mrs. Vining to inspect his novel treatment of the Finding the body of Harold.'

'He's in town by this time, I suppose,' she answered. He has been at Warmingston with his mother for a month; but I believe he's coming back to-day.'

'The whole family came up yesterday, I have just heard; so probably Mr. Knightly will be here directly, as he always can count upon finding you here. I'll drive you to call there to-morrow, Georgie, shall I?'

'Yes do, please; that will be very nice of you.'

'And I tell you what else I will do if it so pleases you. I'll offer to