`Yes, but in point of companionship, one would prefer that she should be represented by her brandy cherries and cream cakes. I think with a shudder that her daughter will always be present in person, and have no agreeable proxies of that kind - a fat blonde girl, with round blue eyes, who will stare at us silently.'

`O yes!' exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly and clapping her hands, `that is just my cousin Maggie. You must have seen her!'

`No, indeed: I'm only guessing what Mrs Tulliver's daughter must be. And then, if she is to banish Philip, our only apology for a tenor, that will be an additional bore.'

`But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you to call on Philip and tell him Maggie is coming tomorrow. He is quite aware of Tom's feeling and always keeps out of his way; so he will understand if you tell him that I asked you to warn him not to come until I write to ask him.'

`I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take. Phil is so sensitive, you know the least thing might frighten him off coming at all, and we had hard work to get him. I can never induce him to come to the Park: he doesn't like my sisters, I think. It is only your faëry touch that can lay his ruffled feathers.'

Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying towards the table, and touched it lightly with his lips. Little Lucy felt very proud and happy. She and Stephen were in that stage of courtship which makes the most exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom-time of passion - when each is sure of the other's love, but no formal declaration has been made and all is mutual divination, exalting the most trivial word, the lightest gesture, into thrills delicate and delicious as wafted jasmine scent. The explicitness of an engagement wears off this finest edge of susceptibility: it is jasmine gathered and presented in a large bouquet.

`But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on Maggie's appearance and manners,' said the cunning Lucy, moving to reach her desk, `because she might have been like her brother, you know; and Tom has not round eyes; and he is as far as possible from staring at people.'

`O, I suppose he is like the father - he seems to be as proud as Lucifer. Not a brilliant companion, though, I should think.'

`I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo. And papa is very fond of him - he says Tom has excellent principles. It was through him that his father was able to pay all his debts before he died.'

`Oh, ah, I've heard about that; I heard your father and mine talking about it a little while ago, after dinner, in one of their interminable discussions about business. They think of doing something for young Tulliver - he saved them from a considerable loss by riding home in some marvellous way, like Turpin, to bring them news about the stoppage of a bank or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsy at the time.'

Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, humming in falsetto, `Graceful Consort,' as he turned over the volume of `The Creation,' which stood open on the desk.

`Come and sing this,' he said, when he saw Lucy rising.

`What, "Graceful Consort"? I don't think it suits your voice.'

`Never mind; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip will have it, is the grand element of good singing. I notice men with indifferent voices are usually of that opinion.'

`Philip burst into one of his invectives against "The Creation" the other day,' said Lucy, seating herself at the piano. `He says it has a sort of sugared complacency and flattering make-believe in it, as if it were written for the birthday fête of a German Grand Duke.'