Leonard entered on the scene, and joined the party in the garden. The countess, perhaps to please her son, was more than civil,—she was markedly kind to him. She noticed him more attentively than she had hitherto done; and, with all her prejudices of birth, was struck to find the son of Mark Fairfield the carpenter so thoroughly the gentleman. He might not have the exact tone and phrase by which Convention stereotypes those born and schooled in a certain world; but the aristocrats of Nature can dispense with such trite minutia? And Leonard had lived, of late at least, in the best society that exists for the polish of language and the refinement of manners,—the society in which the most graceful ideas are clothed in the most graceful forms; the society which really, though indirectly, gives the law to courts; the society of the most classic authors, in the various ages in which literature has flowered forth from civilization. And if there was something in the exquisite sweetness of Leonard’s voice, look, and manner, which the countess acknowledged to attain that perfection in high breeding, which, under the name of “suavity,” steals its way into the heart, so her interest in him was aroused by a certain subdued melancholy which is rarely without distinction, and never without charm. He and Helen exchanged but few words. There was but one occasion in which they could have spoken apart, and Helen herself contrived to elude it. His face brightened at Lady Lansmere’s cordial invitation, and he glanced at Helen as he accepted it; but her eye did not meet his own.

“And now,” said Harley, whistling to Nero, whom his ward was silently caressing, “I must take Leonard away. Adieu! all of you, till to-morrow at dinner. Miss Violante, is the doll to have blue eyes or black?”

Violante turned her own black eyes in mute appeal to Lady Lansmere, and nestled to that lady’s side as if in refuge from unworthy insult.