gave the last touch to her failure. Little could be seen of her face, but her eyes were tearful, and she looked as if in the last extremity of shyness and sorrow. The occasion of her sorrow was apparently the parting with her father—a father whose long hair and velvet coat and general air of slipshoddiness proclaimed him aloud as one of those broken-down geniuses who are so often turned off to sink or swim—and who generally sink—in Australian waters. He made his adieu to his daughter in a very ill-timed theatrical manner, with a flourish of tin trumpets as it were, and a waving of hands, just as if he were going off the stage two steps to the bar, to the ghost-tune in the “Corsican Brothers” on a crowded benefit night.
The girl’s face was very white, but she suppressed her sobs, and the expression of her eyes, as she held her father’s hand and gazed on him in silent farewell, made Arthur Campbell turn away with an uncomfortable sensation of sympathy.
“What a guy! I wonder she does not go second-class,” observed Lady May, in her clear, high-toned accents, which were always thought to be so aristocratic. Perhaps they were rather too clear on this occasion, for the girl heard her, and looked at the speaker, or rather over her,
