Cynthia was standing a little behind Molly, when Roger asked for this introduction. She was generally dressed with careless grace. Molly, who was delicate neatness itself, used sometimes to wonder how Cynthia’s tumbled gowns, tossed away so untidily, had the art of looking so well, and falling in such graceful folds. For instance, the pale lilac muslin gown she wore this evening had been worn many times before, and had looked unfit to wear again till Cynthia put it on. Then the limpness became softness, and the very creases took the lines of beauty. Molly, in a daintily clean pink muslin, did not look half so elegantly dressed as Cynthia. The grave eyes that the latter raised, when she had to be presented to Roger, had a sort of childlike innocence and wonder about them, which did not quite belong to Cynthia’s character. She put on her armour of magic that evening—involuntarily, as she always did; but, on the other side, she could not help trying her power on strangers. Molly had always felt that she should have a right to a good long talk with Roger, when she next saw him, and that he would tell her, or she should gather from him, all the details she so longed to hear about the Squire—about the Hall—about Osborne—about himself. He was just as cordial and friendly as ever with her. If Cynthia had not been there, all would have gone on as she had anticipated; but of all the victims to Cynthia’s charms he fell most prone and abject. Molly saw it all, as she was sitting next to Miss Phœbe at the tea-table, acting right-hand, and passing cake, cream, sugar, with such busy assiduity that every one besides herself thought that her mind, as well as her hands, was fully occupied. She tried to talk to the two shy girls, as in virtue of her two years’ seniority she thought herself bound to do; and the consequence was, she went upstairs with the twain clinging to her arms, and willing to swear an eternal friendship. Nothing would satisfy them but that she must sit between them at vingt-un; and they were so desirous of her advice in the important point of fixing the price of the counters that she could not ever have joined in the animated conversation going on between Roger and Cynthia. Or, rather, it would be more correct to say that Roger was talking in a most animated manner to Cynthia, whose sweet eyes were fixed upon his face with a look of great interest in all he was saying, while it was only now and then that she made her low replies. Molly caught a few words occasionally in intervals of business.

“At my uncle’s, we always give a silver threepence for three dozen. You know what a silver threepence is, don’t you, dear Miss Gibson?”

“The three classes are published in the Senate-House at nine o’clock on the Friday morning, and you can’t imagine”—

“I think it will be thought rather shabby to play at anything less than sixpence. That gentleman” (this in a whisper) “is at Cambridge, and you know they always play very high there, and sometimes ruin themselves, don’t they, dear Miss Gibson?”

“Oh, on this occasion, the Master of Arts who precedes the candidates for honours, when they go into the Senate House, is called the Father of the College to which he belongs. I think I mentioned that before, didn’t I?”

So Cynthia was hearing all about Cambridge, and the very examination about which Molly had felt such keen interest, without having ever been able to have her questions answered by a competent person; and Roger, to whom she had always looked as the final and most satisfactory answerer, was telling the whole of what she wanted to know, and she could not listen. It took all her patience to make up little packets of counters, and settle, as the arbiter of the game, whether it would be better for the round or the oblong counters to be reckoned as six. And, when all was done, and every one sate in their places round the table, Roger and Cynthia had to be called twice before they came. They stood up, it is true, at the first sound of their names; but they did not move—Roger went on talking, Cynthia listening, till the second call; when they hurried to the table and tried to appear, all on a sudden, quite interested in the great questions of the game—namely, the price of three dozen counters, and whether, all things considered, it would be better to call the round counters or the oblong half-a-dozen each. Miss Browning, drumming the pack of cards on the table, and quite ready to begin dealing, decided the matter by saying, “Rounds are sixes, and three dozen counters cost sixpence. Pay up, if you please, and let us begin at once!” Cynthia sate between Roger and William Orford, the young school-boy, who bitterly resented on this