LITMIR.BIZ

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      "I expect that was a back-handed knock for me, Stella," he said rather ruefully. "You see I don't go to church often. I always mean to go, but I generally forget the time, or I wander into the fields, or up into the woods, and forget all about the church till it's too late."

      "But that's very wicked, abominably so," said Stella, gravely, but with a twinkle in her dark eyes. "I must look after your morals as well as your meals, I see, uncle."

      "Yes," he assented, meekly—"do, do."

      "Well, then there was a Mr. Adelstone, a young gentleman from London. He was quite the lion of the evening. I think he was a nephew of Mr. Fielding's."

      The old man nodded.

      "Yes; and did you like him?"

      Stella thought a moment, holding the cream-jug critically over the coffee-cup.

      "Not much, uncle. It was very wrong, and very bad taste, I am afraid, for they all seemed to admire him immensely, and so did he himself."

      Mr. Etheridge looked at her rather alarmed.

      "I must say, Stella, you get too critical. I don't think we are quite used to it."

      She laughed.

      "I don't fancy Mr. Adelstone was at all conscious of adverse criticism; he seemed quite satisfied with everybody, himself in particular. He certainly was beautifully dressed, and he had the dearest little hands and feet in the world; and his hair was parted to a hair, and as smooth as a black-and-tan terrier's; so that he had some grounds for satisfaction."

      "What did he do to offend you, Stella?" asked the old man, rather shrewdly.

      She laughed again, and a little touch of color came into her face, but she answered quite frankly:

      "He paid me compliments, uncle."

      "That doesn't offend your sex generally, Stella."

      "It offends me," said Stella, quickly. "I—I detest them! especially when the man who pays them does it with a self-satisfied smile which shows that he is thinking more of his own eloquence and gallantry than of the person he is flattering."

      The old man looked at her.

      "Will you oblige me by telling me your age again?" he said.

      She laughed.

      "Am I too wise, uncle? Well, never mind—I'll promise to be good and stupid, if you like. But you are not eating any breakfast; and you must not keep looking at that odious easel all the time, as if you were longing to get back to it. Did you ever see a jealous woman?"

      "No, never."

      "Well, if you don't want to, you must not confine all your attention to your work."

      "I don't think there is much fear of that when you are near," he said, meekly.

      She laughed, and jumped up to kiss him with delight.

      "Now that was a splendid compliment, sir! You are improving rapidly—Mr. Adelstone himself couldn't have done it more neatly."

      Scarcely had the words left her lips than the door opened.

      "Mr. Adelstone," said Mrs. Penfold.

      A young man, tall and dark, and faultlessly dressed, stood in the doorway, his hat in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other. He was undeniably good-looking, and as he stood with a smile upon his face, looked at his best. A severe critic might have found fault with his eyes, and said that they were a little too small and a little too near together, might also have added that they were rather shifty, and that there was something approaching the sinister in the curves of the thin lips; but he was undeniably good-looking, and notwithstanding his well cut clothes and spotless boots with their gray gaiters, his white hands with the choice selection of rings, there was an indication of power about him; no one could have suspected him of being a fool, or lacking the power of observation; for instance, as he stood now, smiling and waiting for a welcome, his dark eyes took in every detail of the room without appearing to leave Stella's face.

      Mr. Etheridge looked up with the usual confused air with which he always received his rare visitors, but Stella held out her hand with a smile calm and self-possessed. There is a great deal of the woman even about a girl of nineteen.

      "Good-morning, Mr. Adelstone," she said. "You have come just in time for a cup of coffee."

      "I ought to apologize for intruding at such an unseasonable hour," he said, as he bent over her hand, "but your good housekeeper would not hear of my going without paying my respects. I am afraid I'm intruding."

      "Not at all, not at all," murmured the artist. "Here's a chair," and he rose and cleared a chair of its litter by the simple process of sweeping it on to the floor.

      Mr. Adelstone sat down.

      "I hope you are not tired after your mild dissipation last night?" he asked of Stella.

      She laughed.

      "Not at all. I was telling uncle how nice it was. It was my first party in England, you know."

      "Oh, you musn't call it a party," he said. "But I am very glad you enjoyed it."

      "What beautiful flowers," said Stella, glancing at the bouquet.

      He handed them to her.

      "Will you be so kind as to accept them?" he said. "I heard you admire them in the conservatory last night and I brought them for you from the rectory green-house."

      "For me?" exclaimed Stella, open-eyed. "Oh, I didn't know! I am so sorry you should have troubled. It was very kind. You must have robbed the poor plants terribly."

      "They would be quite consoled if they could know for whom their blossoms were intended," he said, with a low bow.

      Stella looked at him with a smile, and glanced half archly at her uncle.

      "That was very nice," she said. "Poor flowers! it is a pity they can't know! Can't you tell them? There is a language of flowers, you know!"

      Mr. Adelstone smiled. He was not accustomed to have his compliments met with such ready wit, and was nonplussed for a moment, while his eyes dropped from her face with a little shifty look.

      Mr. Etheridge broke the rather embarrassing pause.

      "Put them in the vase for her, Mr. Adelstone, will you, please, and come and have some breakfast. You can't have had any."

      He waited until Stella echoed the invitation, then drew up to the table.

      Stella rang for cup and saucer and plates, and poured him out some coffee; and he plunged into small talk with the greatest ease, his keen eyes watching every graceful turn of Stella's arm, and glancing now and again at the beautiful face.

      It was very good small talk, and amusing. Mr. Adelstone was one of those men who had seen everything. He talked of the London season that was just coming on, to Stella, who sat and listened, half amused, half puzzled, for London was an unknown land to her, and the string of names, noble and fashionable, which fell from his ready tongue, was entirely strange to her.

      Then he talked of the coming Academy to Mr. Etheridge, and seemed to know all about the pictures that were going to be exhibited, and which ones would make a stir, and which would fail. Then he addressed himself to Stella again.

      "You must pay London a visit, Miss Etheridge; there is no place like it the whole world through—not even Paris or Rome."

      Stella smiled.

      "It is not very likely that I shall see London for a long time. My uncle does not often go, although it is so near, do you?"

      "No, no," he assented, "not often."

      "Perhaps you are to be congratulated," said Mr. Adelstone. "With all its charms, I am glad to get away from it."

      "You live there?" said Stella.

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