"I'll go and see her very, very soon," said Maryllia, impulsively; "Dear little thing! When you see her next, tell her I'm coming, won't you?"
"I will," he rejoined,—then paused, looking at her earnestly. "Your friends must find St. Rest a very old-fashioned, world-forgotten sort of place,"—he continued—"And you must, equally, find it difficult to amuse them?"
"Well, perhaps, just a little," she admitted—"The fact is—but tell it not in Gath—I was happier without them! They bore me to death! All the same they really mean to be very nice,—they don't care, of course, for the things I care about,—trees and flowers and books and music,—but then I am always such an impossible person!"
"Are you?" His eyes were full of gentleness as he put this question-
-"I should not have thought that!"
She coloured a little—then changed the subject.
"You have seen Lady Beaulyon, haven't you?" He bent his head in the affirmative—"Isn't she lovely?"
"Not to me," he replied, quietly—"But then I'm no judge."
She looked at him in surprise.
"She is considered the most beautiful woman in England!"
"By whom?", he enquired;—"By the society paragraphists who are paid for their compliments?"