 the mind of Mr. Raikes, he, though he worshipped a coronet and would
gladly have recalled the feudal times to a corrupt land, could not help thinking
that his bow had beaten the Duke's and was better. He would rather not have
thought so, for it upset his preconceptions and threatened a revolution in his
ideas. For this reason he followed the Duke, and tried, if possible, to correct,
or at least chasten the impressions he had of possessing a glaring advantage
over the nobleman. The Duke's second notice of him was hardly a nod. »Well!« Mr.
Raikes reflected, »if this is your Duke, why, egad! for figure and style my
friend Harrington beats him hollow.« And Raikes thought he knew who could
conduct a conversation with superior dignity and neatness. The torchlight of a
delusion was extinguished in him, but he did not wander long in that gloomy
cavernous darkness of the disenchanted, as many of us do, and as Evan had done,
when after a week at Beckley Court he began to examine of what stuff his
brilliant father, the great Mel, was composed. On the contrary, as the light of
the Duke dwindled, Raikes gained in lustre. »In fact,« he said, »there 's
nothing but the title wanting.« He was by this time on a level with the Duke in
his elastic mind.
    Olympus had been held in possession by the Countess about half an hour, when
Lady Jocelyn mounted it, quite unconscious that she was scaling a fortified
point. The Countess herself fired off the first gun at her.
    »It has been so extremely delightful up alone here, Lady Jocelyn: to look at
everybody below! I hope many will not intrude on us!«
    »None but the dowagers who have breath to get up,« replied her ladyship,
panting. »By the way, Countess, you hardly belong to us yet. You dance?«
    »Indeed, I do not.«
    »Oh, then you are in your right place. A dowager is a woman who doesn't
dance: and her male attendant is - what is he? We will call him a fogy.«
    Lady Jocelyn directed a smile at Melville and Sir John, who both protested
that it was an honour to be the Countess's fogy.
    Rose now joined them, with Laxley morally dragged in her wake.
    »Another dowager and fogy!« cried the Countess, musically. »Do you not
dance, my child?«
    »Not till the music strikes up
