Sir Roger, some one is singing yonder.

I should like to hear him." And under Mr.Ingelow's angry eyes, she took the enraptured old baronet's arm and walked away.
"The hoary dotard!" muttered the artist, glaring and grinding his teeth; "the sixty-five-year-old imbecile! It is the first time I ever heard her decline a waltz under the plea of fatigue.

She's a heartless coquette, that Mollie Dane, and I am a fool to waste a second thought upon her." Miss Dane danced no more that evening, and Sir Roger never left her side.

She talked to him until his old eyes sparkled; she smiled upon him until his brain swam with delight.
And that was but the beginning.

The torments Mr.Hugh Ingelow suffered for the ensuing two weeks words are too weak to describe.