"He is all right, auntie," replied her niece, "I left him with the Prince."
"Ah," with a gasp of relief, "then thatt is arl-right. This is Sir Horace's nephew, Verona—my niece, Miss Chandos."
The young lady looked at Malcolm gravely, and inclined her head an inch or two. Unlike her aunt, her appearance challenged the most critical inspection, and bore, triumphantly, the ordeal of a searching gaze. The shape of her face was perfect, her beautiful dark eyes were merry and intelligent, but the short upper lip was slightly—slightly—supercilious.
"A frightful crowd, is it not?" she observed.
"Yes, and getting worse every moment," declared Sir Horace, taking the remark entirely to himself; "allow me to pilot you out of it," and to the amusement and admiration of his companion, he proceeded to manœuvre madame and her niece far away from their own party. Giving the former his arm up the steps, he said:
"Malcolm, I will leave you to look after Miss Chandos."
"Who is very well able to take care of herself, thank you," she answered. Then, turning to Malcolm as they strolled along in the wake of their elders, she continued:
"Have you come to do the cure?"
"Well, no, I'm merely an outsider—a spectator," he confessed, "but I suppose I must drink something to give me the run of the place. Something to talk about, and to establish a common interest with other people."
"Very well, then," she rejoined with equal gravity, "between seven and eight o'clock, you take three glasses of the Elisabeth Brunnen—with a promenade of fifteen minutes between each. This, with a salt bath at eleven, and a couple of tumblers of the Staal Brunnen at three o'clock, will instantly place you on a proper footing in society. Now"—and she came to a standstill—"where is that dog?"