The London season proceeded with its usual accumulation of engagements, its usual breathless chase after half-hours that have got too long a start ever to be recaptured, its usual fleeting satisfactions and abiding disappointments, its snubs, sneers, smiles, follies, falsehoods, and flirtations. The rushing current of fashionable life in London carried little May Cheffington on its surface, together with many brazen vessels of a very different kind. Constance Hadlow observed half-enviously to her friend that she was thoroughly "in the swim," a phrase which May found singularly inappropriate in her own case, feeling that there was no more question of a swim than in shooting Niagara! To her, especially, the whirl of society was confusing, phantasmagoric, and unreal. All the faces were new to her, most of the names awoke no associations in her mind. On the other hand, this peculiar inexperience gave freshness to her impressions and keenness to her insight. She had none of those social traditions which, nine times out of ten, supply the place of private judgment. She found her impression of many personages startlingly at variance with the label which the world had agreed to affix to them. It is possible to be at once simple and shrewd, just as it is possible to be both rusÉ and dull-witted.

May's simplicity was not of the blundering thick-skinned type; and her ingenuous freshness was admired by a great many persons, among whom was Mrs. Griffin. Far from being offended by May's moral indignation against those who accepted the hospitality of vulgar people, and then ridiculed them for being vulgar, Mrs. Griffin entirely approved her sentiments. Mrs. Griffin herself deplored, as she often said, "the servility towards mere money, which was degrading the tone of society." And whenever any new instance of it came to her knowledge, she would shake her head, and exclaim, softly, "Oh, Mammon, Mammon!" But this did not, of course, apply to her daughter the duchess, who sometimes went to the Aaronssohns'. Her daughter was so very great a lady as to be above ordinary restrictions. Other people worshipped Mammon; the duchess only patronized Mammon—which was, surely, a very different thing!

Aunt Pauline, however, derived no gratification from May's unconventional frankness. It was, on the contrary, a source of constant anxiety to her; and she felt daily more and more that it would be a relief to get May off her hands. Introducing her niece into society—even although the niece was a pretty girl, and a Cheffington to boot—had not proved so pleasing a task as she had anticipated. There was, to her thinking, a strange perversity in the girl's character, which made her callous where she should be sensitive, and sensitive where she might well be indifferent. For instance, she showed culpable coolness about her great-uncle Castlecombe and his family, and provoking warmth about her Oldchester friends. Not that May was apt to speak much of her life in Oldchester. In the natural course of things she would have talked freely and eagerly about her dear granny; but very soon after her arrival in London, her affectionate loquacity on this subject received a check. Aunt Pauline had hinted, with her usual mild politeness, that it would be desirable not to speak of Mrs. Dobbs before Smithson or any of the servants. Seeing the startled look in May's eyes, and the indignant flush on May's cheeks, her aunt added diplomatically, "Your father would not like it, May. I am trying to carry out his expressed wishes. That ought to be enough for you."

It was enough, at all events, to close May's lips. Her love and pride combined to make her silent. She tried to persuade herself that her father, at all events, had some good and reasonable motive for this prohibition, and that he, at least, was not ashamed of Mrs. Dobbs—ashamed of granny! The very thought made her hot with anger. But that Aunt Pauline was ashamed of her was too clear to May's honest mind. Painful as this conviction was, however, she came by degrees to hold it rather in sorrow than in anger, and to regard her aunt with something of the same indulgent toleration that Mrs. Dobbs had once expressed to Jo Weatherhead. For Mrs. Dormer-Smith's worldliness was not at all of a cynical sort. It was rather in the nature of a deep-rooted superstition conscientiously held.

To some points of her worldly creed Pauline clung with religious fervour. One of these was the duty incumbent on a dowerless young lady to marry well. To marry very well was to marry a man with birth and money; but to secure a husband with money only—provided there were enough of it—she allowed to be marrying well. She did not look at the matter with vulgar flippancy. It was, no doubt, a sacrifice for a well-born woman to become the wife of an underbred man, however wealthy. But well-born women were no less called upon than their humbler sisters to make sacrifices in a good cause.

None of the Castlecombes much frequented fashionable society, and Mrs. Dormer-Smith had hitherto resigned herself, without much difficulty, to seeing very little of her noble kinsfolk. But when May was introduced, her aunt thought it desirable to cultivate them. Lord Castlecombe's big, gloomy, family mansion in town had been let ever since his wife's death many years ago; and whenever his lordship came to London to give his vote in the House of Peers—which was almost the sole object that had power to bring him up from the country—he occupied furnished lodgings. Of his two sons, both bachelors, the elder was governor of a colony on the other side of the globe, and the younger held a permanent post under Government. This Lucius Cheffington occasionally met Mr. Dormer-Smith at the club, and exchanged a few words with him. Captain Cheffington, on his penultimate visit to England, when his ungrateful country declined to provide for him, had quarrelled with all the Castlecombes, and had made himself particularly obnoxious to Lucius; for Lucius, whom his cousin considered a solemn ass, held a lucrative place, whilst Augustus, who knew himself to be a remarkably clever fellow, with immense knowledge of the world, was relegated to poverty and obscurity. But Pauline had not quarrelled with them. She would not willingly have quarrelled with any one, least of all with her Uncle Castlecombe and his family. And as to Mr. Dormer-Smith, it chanced that the one point of sympathy between himself and his cousin-in-law Lucius was the latter's cordial dislike to Gus. Nevertheless, the dislike did not descend to Gus's daughter. Lucius was pleased to approve of his young kinswoman, none the less, perhaps, that it was evident her father troubled himself little about her.

Mr. Dormer-Smith knew very well that the most effectual way of winning Lord Castlecombe's goodwill for his grand-niece was to assure his lordship that he would not be called upon to do anything for her. He, therefore, confidentially informed Lucius that the girl's grandmother in Oldchester was defraying her expenses, and would, no doubt, eventually provide for her altogether. The sagacity of this course was proved soon afterwards, when Lucius announced that his father would come and dine with Pauline the next time he should be in town, and make Miranda's acquaintance.

This was well. And even as to May's Oldchester friends matters turned out better than her aunt could have hoped. In the first place, the Misses Piper showed no disposition whatever to force themselves on Mrs. Dormer-Smith. That being the case, there was no objection to May's going to see them every Sunday with her uncle and the children. To Harold and Wilfred these Sunday visits were such a delightful break in the dull routine of their lives that their father would have endured considerable boredom and discomfort rather than deprive them of it. But, in fact, he was not bored. Whenever the music became too severe, he could withdraw into the tea-room, where he always found some one to chat with. Possibly he, too, felt these Sundays to be a break in the monotony of his daily life. There was a cordial, hearty tone about the hostesses which was decidedly pleasant, although he was aware that Pauline would pronounce it sadly underbred. But Pauline was not there to be shocked, and there were some red drops in Mr. Dormer-Smith's veins (he was not quite so blue-blooded as his wife) which warmed to this plebeian kindness. Sometimes even the moisture would come into his eyes when he watched his little boys clinging familiarly about Miss Patty as they never clung about their mother. The good-natured old maid had won the children's hearts completely. They were overheard one day in a lively discussion as to which was the prettier, Miss Patty or Cousin May: Wilfred inclining, on the whole, to award the palm of beauty to his cousin, but Harold powerfully arguing in favour of Miss Patty that she had such "beautiful curls" (an ingenuous, and probably unique, tribute to the ginger-bread coloured wig!) and a "shiny brooch like a butterfly."

Then Constance Hadlow, whom Mrs. Dormer-Smith had unwillingly invited to lunch one day with her former schoolfellow, proved to be in every respect "most presentable," as Aunt Pauline herself candidly admitted. So presentable was she in fact, so handsome, self-possessed, and even (on the mother's side) well connected, that there might have arisen objections of a different sort against receiving her, as being a dangerous competitor for that solemn duty of marrying well. But a chance word of May's to the effect that young Bransby had long been an admirer of Constance, and that they were supposed by many persons in Oldchester to be engaged to each other, relieved Aunt Pauline's mind on that score.

"It would be very suitable," she said approvingly. "I think Mr. Bransby a very nice person; so quiet."

The subject of this glowing eulogium had not appeared at Mrs. Dormer-Smith's receptions for some time. He had been ordered into the country, to cure a violent cold by change of air; and although he much disliked leaving town at that moment, he never thought of neglecting his physician's advice. Theodore's mother had been consumptive; and the fear that he inherited her constitution made him anxiously careful of his health. Immediately on his return to London he presented himself, about half-past five o'clock one Thursday afternoon, in Mrs. Dormer-Smith's drawing-room, and experienced a shock of disagreeable surprise on finding Constance Hadlow seated near May at the tea-table. May, innocently supposing that she was doing him a good turn, gave him her place, and went to another part of the room. But Constance coolly greeted him with a "How d'ye do, Theodore?" in a tone of the politest insipidity, which he sincerely approved of. Nevertheless, he would rather not have found her there. On glancing round he was struck by several innovations. In the first place, the pianoforte—usually a dumb piece of furniture in Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house—stood open, with some loose sheets of music lying on it; and Signor Vincenzo Valli sat, teacup in hand, smiling his false smile beside Mrs. Griffin. Theodore knew perfectly well who Signor Valli was; and it needed not Mrs. Griffin's gracious demeanour to instruct this rising young man that Valli was sufficiently the fashion to be worth being civil to. But he was surprised to find him there. His surprises, however, were not at an end; for whom should he behold in familiar conversation with a gentleman at the opposite side of the room but Owen Rivers? And near them was—he could hardly believe his eyes—Mr. Bragg! It seemed to Theodore as if there had been a conspiracy amongst his acquaintance to make all sorts of fresh combinations on the social chess-board during his brief absence. He felt that it was necessary for him to take an accurate survey of the new positions. But he saw no immediate opportunity of doing so; for there was no one at hand to interrogate, except Constance Hadlow, who, of course, knew nothing. She must be spoken to, however; but he would cut the conversation as short as possible.

Thoughts—even the weighty thoughts of a diplomatically-minded young gentleman—move quickly, and there was scarcely any perceptible pause between Constance's greeting and his gravely polite remark that it was quite an unexpected pleasure to see her there.

"Yes; I came up a few weeks ago with the Pipers."

"Oh! you are staying with them?" (This with a strong flavour of his superior manner; for the Pipers were really nobodies.)

"And what have you been doing with yourself? I haven't seen you anywhere," said Constance coolly.

"I have been out of town. But in any case we might possibly not have met. Have you been going out much?"

"Oh, as much as most people, I suppose. I was at the Aaronssohns' dance last night."

"The Aaronssohns!" exclaimed Theodore. (This time he was so astonished that he spoke quite naturally.) "I didn't know that you knew them."

"Oh, I don't know them."

"Then how did you get—I mean——"

"How did I get there? Dear me, Theodore, your visit to the country has given you a refreshing buttercup-and-daisy kind of air! Do you suppose that the Aaronssohns' ball-room was filled with their personal friends and acquaintances? Mrs. Griffin got me an invitation."

Now to be presented to Mrs. Griffin and to be invited to the Aaronssohns' were pet objects of Theodore Bransby's social ambition, and he had not yet compassed either of them.

"Oh, indeed!" said he, struggling, under the disadvantage of conscious ill-humour, to maintain that air of indifference to all things in heaven and earth which he imagined to be the completest manifestation of high breeding. "I suppose that was achieved through Mrs. Dormer-Smith's influence."

"Not altogether. It was May Cheffington who first introduced me to Mrs. Griffin. She's just the same dear little thing as ever—I don't mean Mrs. Griffin! But Mrs. Griffin found out that she had known my grandfather Rivers. I believe they were sweethearts in their pinafores a hundred years ago; so she has been awfully nice to me."

While Constance was speaking, Theodore's eye lighted on Mr. Bragg, solid and solemn, wearing that look of melancholy respectability which is associated with the British workman in his Sunday clothes.

"Oh, and Mr. Bragg was at the Aaronssohns', too," said Constance, following the young man's glance. "Fancy Mr. Bragg at a ball!"

"Did Mrs. Griffin know his grandfather?" asked Theodore, with a sneer.

It was clear to Constance that he had quite lost his temper. Otherwise he would not, she felt sure, have said anything in such bad taste. But she replied calmly—

"I don't think Mr. Bragg ever had a grandfather. But he is rich enough to do without one. It is poor persons like you and me who find grandfathers necessary—or, at all events, useful."

Theodore understood the sarcasm of this quiet speech, and it helped him to master his growing irritation. There are some natures on which a moral buffet acts as a sedative.

"Was it your friend Miss Piper who brought Mr. Bragg here?" he asked, showing no sign of having felt the blow, except a slight increase of pallor.

"Oh dear, no! The Pipers have never been here themselves, except to leave a card at the door. This is not the kind of society they care for, you know. I saw Mr. Bragg come in to-day with May's cousin, Mr. Lucius Cheffington, but I can't say whether he first introduced him or not."

"Is that Mr. Lucius Cheffington?"

"That man talking to Owen?—Yes."

"Mrs. Dormer-Smith has rather a mixed collection this afternoon. I see Valli over there. You know who I mean? That short, foreign man near——"

"Oh yes; Signor Valli is a great ally of mine. He's delightful, I think. His airs and graces are so amusing. I can tell you how he comes to be here, if you like," returned Constance placidly. She was secretly enjoying Theodore's discomfiture. He had expected to play the part of town mouse, and to patronize and instruct her. "The fact is," she continued, "that Lady Moppett begged Mr. Dormer-Smith to induce his wife to have her protÉgÉe, Miss Bertram, to sing here on Thursday afternoons, promising, as a kind of bait, to get Valli to come too. I don't think Mrs. Dormer-Smith particularly wished to have Miss Bertram; but she thought it would be nice to have Valli, who is run after by the best people, and is very difficult to get hold of. So the negotiation succeeded. It is too funny how one has to mÉnager and coax these professional people. If you don't want any more information just now, I think I will go and speak to Mrs. Griffin." Whereupon Constance glided away, self-possessed and graceful, and with a becoming touch of animation bestowed by the consciousness that she had been mistress of the situation.

Theodore looked decidedly blank for the moment. No one bestowed any attention on him. As he sat watching, he was struck by the evidently familiar way in which Owen Rivers and Mr. Cheffington were talking together. He himself particularly desired to be introduced to Lucius Cheffington, but a secret, grudging feeling made him unwilling to owe the introduction to Rivers. Presently Rivers moved away to join May and Miss Bertram, who were turning over some music together, and Mr. Bragg took his place near Mr. Cheffington. This was the opportunity which Theodore had wished for. He at once rose and walked up to them. Theodore's manner was never servile, but there was an added gravity in his demeanour towards certain persons, intended to show that he thought them worth taking seriously; and this tribute he rendered to Mr. Bragg. For, although the young man had by no means forgotten Mr. Bragg's deplorable insensibility to an enlightened view of the currency question, yet he prided himself on thoroughly understanding that the great tin-tack maker's claims to consideration rested on a solid basis quite apart from culture or intelligence.

"I wish," said Theodore, after the first salutations, "that you would do me the favour to make me known to Mr. Lucius Cheffington. I know so many members of his family, but I have not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance."

Mr. Bragg eyed him with his usual heavy deliberation. "Oh," said he slowly, "this is Mr.—I don't call to mind your Christian name—eh? Oh yes—Mr. Theodore Bransby."

Mr. Lucius Cheffington made an unusually low bow, his pride being of the sort which manifests itself in the most ceremonious politeness.

He was a small, lean man, with a pale face deeply lined by ill-health and a fretful temperament. He had closely shaven cheeks and chin; heavy, grizzled moustaches; and very thick, grizzled hair, which he wore rather long. His voice was harsh, though subdued, and he spoke very slowly, making such long pauses as occasionally tempted unwary strangers to finish his sentences for him. A double eyeglass with tortoise-shell rims was set astride his nose; and behind the glasses two dark, near-sighted eyes looked out, somewhat superciliously, upon a world which fell sadly short of what a Cheffington had a right to expect.

"I have the pleasure of knowing your cousin, Captain Augustus Cheffington, very well indeed," said Theodore.

Lucius bowed again and adjusted his eyeglass. A shade of surprise and annoyance passed over his face. His Cousin Augustus had been a sore subject with the family for years; and latterly such rumours as had reached England about him had not made the subject more agreeable.

"I have often thought," pursued Theodore, quite unaware that his listener was regarding him with a mixture of astonishment and disfavour, "that it is a great pity a man of Captain Cheffington's abilities and accomplishments should live out of England; unless, indeed, he held some diplomatic appointment abroad. In my opinion these are times in which the great old families should hold fast by the public service. As I ventured to say to one of our county members the other day——" And so on, and so on. Having thus happily launched himself, Theodore proceeded in his best Parliamentary style: holding forth with a power of self-complacent and steady boredom beyond his years. A sensitive person would have been petrified by the unsympathizing stare from behind those tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses; but Theodore was not sensitive to such influences: being fortified by the À priori conviction that he must naturally make a favourable impression. And since Lucius Cheffington could not, compatibly with his own dignity, plainly tell him that he considered him a presumptuous young ass, there was nothing to check his flow of eloquence.

But at length the cold stare was softened, and the pale, peevish, furrowed face turned to Theodore with a faint show of interest. Some casual word of this intrusive young man's seemed to show that he came from Oldchester.

"Do you know—a—Mrs.—a—Dobbs?" asked Lucius, speaking for the first time, and edging in this point-blank question between two of Theodore's neatly-turned sentences setting forth a political parallel between the late Lord Tweedledum and the present Right Honourable Tweedledee.

It was a shock; but Theodore bore it stoically.

"Not exactly. I have spoken with her. Mrs. Dobbs is not precisely——in our set," he answered, with a slight smile at one corner of his mouth, intended to demolish Mrs. Dobbs.

"I thought that, being a native of Oldchester, you might—a—be——" begun Mr. Cheffington in his low, harsh tones.

"Be acquainted with her? Really——"

"I thought that, being a native of Oldchester, you might—a—be able to tell me something about her."

"Not much, I fear," replied Theodore. He felt tempted to add that in Oldchester there were natives and natives.

"She's—a—rich, isn't she?" pursued Mr. Cheffington.

"Not that I know of," answered Theodore, staring a little.

"Rich is, perhaps, too much to say. At any rate, she is—a—quite well——"

"Well off? Oh, as to that——"

"At any rate, she is quite well-to-do, I presume!"

Theodore had never considered the question, but he said, "Oh yes," at a venture; and then suddenly a light flashed upon his mind. Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs was rich, after all. Though she lived in so humble a style she might, perhaps, have laid by money.

"She appears to be a person of—a—great—good sense," said Mr. Lucius Cheffington, remembering how Mrs. Dormer-Smith had stated that she declined to give any money-assistance to Augustus. And after that he made a second very low bow, and brought the interview to an end.

Little had Theodore Bransby expected to hear Mrs. Dobbs discussed and approved by a member of the noble house of Castlecombe. He had noticed that Mrs. Dormer-Smith systematically avoided any mention of the vulgar old woman. But then Mrs. Dormer-Smith was a person of the very finest taste. And, to be sure, it could scarcely be expected that Mr. Lucius Cheffington should feel Augustus's mÉsalliance as acutely as it was felt by Augustus's own sister. Besides, if, as really seemed possible, the ironmonger's widow turned out to be a moneyed person——! But it must be recorded of Theodore, that not even the idea of her having money reconciled him to Mrs. Dobbs. He said to himself afterwards, when he was meditating on what he had heard, that nothing so convincingly proved how much he was in love with Miss Cheffington, as his being ready to forgive her even her grandmother!