When I say that I had not a vestige of regret for taking Hope's place,—felt, indeed, quite a glow of self-approval for having done a friend a good turn,—you may be pretty sure I did not find the evening disagreeable. Mrs. Drummond sang and played particularly well; perhaps her voice was not really so fine as Mrs. Creek's, but it had far more expression, and there was a tone in it that went straight to the heart. Her singing had the same sort of charm as her appearance and manner. It would be hard to put into words what that charm was, though there could be no difficulty about feeling it. As I have said before, she was not pretty, at least she did not strike you as being so at first; the only actual beauties she owned were her teeth, small, even, and white, and her exquisitely fair skin. Her other features were small and regular, but nothing remarkable; her mouth, indeed, was rather large, but the lips, fresh as a child's, were flexible and expressive to a rare degree, and when they smiled they lighted up her whole face. Mind, she was by no means prodigal of these smiles. The prevailing expression of her face had something of sadness in it, mingled with a certain air of hauteur, and it was this, and a somewhat reserved manner, that I fancy often repelled people; but when she chose to be pleasant, as I suppose she did this evening, nothing could be more natural than she was, simple, kind, and cordial, and so playful, so light-hearted, that it was hard to imagine she could be unpopular.
But I am bound to confess she was not always like
