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interest to be on good terms with; and you
seek the company of fashionable fools who
teach you to squander my money and
despise my friends. Take care, Georgina! I
warn you to take care! There are limits
even to my indulgence."

Mr. Frost had uttered the last words in
his heat, after the carriage had drawn up at
his own door. And the words had been
heard by the servant who opened it.

Mrs. Frost was mortified. She even shed
a few tears. But her husband's wrath
was flaming too high to be extinguished
by a few tears at that moment.

"That is all I get," said Mrs. Frost to
herself, as her maid was brushing out her
hair, "for consenting to go near that
odious Bedford-square set at all! I was
a fool to consent. I don't believe a word
about its being important to Sidney whether
Hugh Lockwood marries a princess or a
pauper. It is merely to carry out some
scheme of that artful little creature Mrs.
Lockwood. But she shall find that whatever
her influence over my husband may be,
she cannot make me an accomplice in her


A CHEERY hopeful horn, a restless and merry
violin, a deep-voiced mellow bass viol, and a
flute that whistles like a jolly blackbird welcome
me to Scarcliff, the night of my arrival at
Lowther's. I look out from my lofty window at
Scarcliff Bay, which shines like fluid silver in
the moonlight, while half a dozen herring-boats,
each with a speck of light hung like a talisman
somewhere about it, ride at anchor sleepily on
the bright placid wave. The open ring of lamps
on the esplanade circles the southern cliff like
an outspread necklace of gold, while the double
rows of lights on the Spa Terrace form a sort of
centre pendant.

Hark! 'twas the Indian drum! What means
that noise, as of showmen perpetually going
to begin? Am I in Benares? Is this
Jubbelpore or Sulipatam, and are the festivals
commencing in the Hindoo temples, by order
of Kehama the accursed? O dear no! That is
only Mouther's private-hotel gong calling the
Mouther world to tea, and that brazen bray
that replies to it defiantly is Crowther's, lower
down, resolved to also advertise her meals and
the crowded state of her apartments, which,
full or not, are equally kept lit up at night, on
the principle that fires are kept burning in
a camp the night it is deserted. Crowther's
people despise Mouther's because "Private
hotel and boarding-house" is painted in vulgar,
staring, large gilt letters over Mouther's first-
floor windows; and Mouther's people do not
think much of Crowther's, because they have
no seats of their own in the terrace garden,
and, what is more despicable, have no croquet-
ground. Moreover, Madre Mouther is musical,
and so are the Miss Mouthers, especially Louisa,
the blonde, the second, who wears a blue snood
and a blue "suivez-moi, jeunes hommes," that
flutters in the evening breeze as, at the piano,
by the open window, she nightly sings,
surrounded by admirers, till the Crowther set,
who only venture on Tommy Dodd and such
low comic tunes, almost burst with envy.

Out on the north cliff to look at the grey pile
of castle ruin rising on the hill, old and shattered,
but still invincible and defiant. The moon is just
now hidden by a cloud, and one star only shines
above. Look below, at the very edge of the
wet sand, just where the foam is receding,
there stands a white lady, a pale phantom
figure, like a ghost on the shore, waiting
fixedly for some phantom ship. No, it is only
the reflection of that lone star on the wet
sand. Well, we have seen many worse ghosts
than that. Lo! a bicycle; a tall-legged person
is standing over it on tiptoemisguided man.
The moment he puts his feet on the wheel
supports away he is bornea self-tormented
Mazeppa. On he rolls and over he topples time
after time, until at last two friends hold him
ignominiously on, one on each side, a volunteer
pushes him contemptuously behind, and
he is conveyed home, for this time, without
the broken leg he seems so ardently to covet.
Those two lovers, on the seat looking seaward,
with their faces so near together, do not
turn to see his ignominious retreat, and
probably would not look round if half Scarcliff
were to suddenly blaze up like a vesuvian.

Awake early I thrust my head out of the
open window at Lowther's, to see if the coast
is where it was. Queen Ocean has three deep
lace flounces of foam to her gown. The ruined
castle is veiled in a sunny mist. One sail is a
reddish yellow in the sunshine; beyond scatter
other sails, growing to mere specks, greyer
and speckier as they recede more and more
towards Flamborough Head. What are those
dark spots like black corks, washing about down
there in the spray? Those are the hardy bathers
of Scarcliff. All the amusements are already
mustered on the parade; the Hindoo with
tracts; the blind beggar, whose unsympathising
dog holds in his mouth a tin for pence; the blue-
coated, tow-haired, frowsy German band; the
boy with fusees and the Scarcliff Gazette done
up in pink wrappers; the garrulous old Italian
with a big nose that quivers when he walks,
and the monkey in a plaid tunic that plays the
tambourine. I get up and find Crowther's
set are watching with dignity the little
caricature of man gnawing at an apple, while
Mouther's people, in their noisy, vulgar way, are
preparing a handful of nuts to throw him when
he comes to their steps. The proprietor of the
performing birds is making slowly towards us,
and I hear the pop of the little gun that
announces the execution of that old offender the
deserter. Down below in the foam a fat man
is out wading breast high in the green water