"How comfortable you look! how cold it is!--Algy!!" For the enigma of the noise is solved.

It was Algy who shuffled and scuffled--yes, scuffled up from the low stool which he has evidently been sharing with the pretty shoes--at Mrs.Huntley's feet, on to his long legs, on which he is now standing, not at all at ease.

He does not answer.
"ALGY!" repeat I, in a tone of the profoundest, accentedest surprise, involuntarily turning my back upon my hostess and facing my brother.
"Well, what about me ?" he cries tartly, irritated (and no wonder) by my open mouth and tragical air.
"What _has_ brought you here ?" I ask slowly, and with a tactless emphasis.
"The fly from the White Hart," he answers, trying to laugh, but looking confused and angry.
"But I mean--I thought you told me, when I asked you to Tempest this week, that you could not get away for an _hour_!" "No more I could," he answers impatiently, yet stammering; "quite unexpected--did not know when I wrote--have to be back to-night." "Will not you come nearer the fire ?" says Mrs.Huntley, in her slow sugared tones, with a well-bred ignoring of our squabble.

"I am sure that you must be perished with cold." I recollect myself and comply.

As I sit down I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass.