Lady Munro had just time to give a sketch of the lad's story, when they arrived at the door of the concert-hall—wonderful alike for its magnificence and its vulgarity—to find the orchestra already carrying away the whole room with a brilliant, piquant, irresistible pizzicato.
"Do take a back seat, mother," whispered Evelyn; "we can't have Lucy dancing right up the hall."
Lucy shot a glance of lofty scorn at her friend.
"I am glad at least that Providence did not make me a lamp-post," she said severely.
The last note of the piece had not died away, when a young man came forward and held out his hand to Lady Munro.
"Why, Mr Monteith, my husband has just gone to your hotel."
"Yes; he told me you were here, so I left him and my father together."
He shook hands with the two girls, and seated himself beside Lucy.
"You here?" she said with an air of calm indifference, which was very unlike her usual impulsive manner.
"Nay, it is I who should say that. You here? And you leave me to find it out by chance from Sir Douglas?"