full of the little attentions of hospitality to his fair guests, pressing upon them every sort of refreshment, and sure that they were dreadfully tired; and when Mr. Prince, who had been captivated by that indescribable air and manner which he had seen once in his life and suffered from too, eagerly entered into conversation with Amy about her father and his writings, and books, and publishers, and particular editions, Allan sat in the background with nothing to do, and nothing to say.
He had hitherto been the only person to whom Amy had talked of her father. It had been to them a sacred subject, approached reverently and tenderly; but here was this stranger common talk of it, quoting a passage now and then, shewing the delicate sense of humour, the playful and exquisite wit, the harmless satire that the old Palladium critic had been noted for, and Amy did not seem hurt or displeased, but, on the contrary, enjoyed it. Mr. Lufton grew more animated than Allan had ever seen him before. Mr. Twyford, the elder photographer, if he did not know much of books, had an extraordinary memory for personal anecdotes, chiefly about well-known colonial people. No name could be mentioned about which he had not a. good story to tell, and he told it pointedly and
