The
reception-rooms upon the first floor, five of them, and all _en
suite_, and gorgeously decorated in white and gold, were brilliantly
lighted and thrown open to the best of London society. Lady Essendine
was at home to her friends, and seemingly she had plenty of them, for
the place was thronged.
The party was by way of being musical--that is to say, a famous
pianist had been engaged to let off a lot of rockets from his
finger-tips, and a buffo singer from the opera roared out his "Figaro
la, Figaro qua," with all the strength of his brazen lungs; while one
or two gifted amateurs sang glees in washed-out, apologetical
accents, which were nearly lost in the din of the room.
But there was yet another singer, whose performance was attended with
rather more display. It was preluded by a good deal of whispering and
nodding of heads. Lady Essendine posed as a charitable person, always
anxious to do good, and this singer was a _protegee_ of hers--an
interesting but unfortunate foreigner in very reduced circumstances,
whom she had discovered by accident, and to whom she was most anxious
to give a helping hand.
"A sweet creature," she had said quite audibly that evening, although
the object of her remarks was at her elbow. "A most engaging person;
poor thing, when I found her she was almost destitute.
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