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DELICIA.

CHAPTER I.

THE HOUR.

"There is a kind of character in thy life,
That to the observer doth thy history
Fully unfold."

THERE is, in a certain part of London, which the tide of fashion has long since passed by, an oldfashioned square, which, although its original brightness and liveliness have long since departed, yet still retains relics of ancient grandeur; even as a court belle in losing youth and beauty never quite relinquishes the stately presence or graceful movements that once characterised her.

Let us give the name of Anne Square to this faroff territory, being bound to call it something; but let us question not too particularly as to the exact spot where it is marked on the map, for we would prefer not to be asked to be very minute as to our

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geography. Suffice it therefore to remark, only by way of description, that its houses are for the most part like many other houses in the duller parts of London, uniform in size and appearance; the only exceptions to this rule being No. 39, where a portion of the roof has been taken away, and glass substituted, denoting the residence of an artist, or perhaps of some one with photographic tendencies; —and No. 1, the windows of which are bright with flowers, even at this late season- -a luxurious taste not shared by the other inhabitants of Anne Square.

Such is Anne Square as well as we can describe it; and seeing it as we do now, on a dull, foggy November evening, it is certainly possessed of a most forbidding aspect; nevertheless there are people to be found who have lived and died there, who would not, at any period of their existence, have exchanged their residence therein for a palace elsewhere.

But for all that, on this particular evening, raw and chilly, with a November fog gaining thickness and yellowness with the approach of night, with the dying leaves on the stunted Square trees dripping with moisture, it would be difficult to decide wherein its exact charm lay.

With truth we may speedily decide it is not out of doors, so now let us look within.

No. 1 is the corner house and the largest in the Square. Its drawing-room possesses three windows, whereof two afford a view of the decaying leaves and plants in the Square garden, and of No. 39, which stands directly opposite; whilst one looks on to Anne Street, which is the con

necting link between Anne Square and the busy bustling world that lies beyond.

The room itself is a pleasant one, with oldfashioned furniture, and quaint bits of old china and several good paintings enlivening the gloom of its walls; at least you would see all this if your visit were paid in daylight, and not, as now, between the lights of a November afternoon, with a thick fog outside to boot.

By the hearth, in a wide arm-chair, is seated the owner of the house, and sole occupant of the apartment. The fire is bright and cheerful, and the small kettle singing on the hob might even incline one to forget the gloom without. For when it is too early for candles, and too dark to sew or read, or do anything an austere world might demand by way of occupation, surely one can make one's self very happy, dreaming dreams by the fireside, above all, if one be young.

But if one can only conjure up ghosts? Ah, then, perhaps then the twilight does not prove so welcome. At least it is to be observed that as people grow older they care less for semi-darkness and more for gas and moderator lamps.

But it is time for us to cease speculating; instead, let us see what manner of woman this is into whose house we have intruded, and whose solitude we have broken. Delicia Mainwaring is no longer a girl; she is, indeed, I am afraid, even when seen by the flickering firelight, nearer thirty than twenty. Does that cause your interest in her to die out at once? I fear, to many it will. To those many who

care only for the lilies and roses of extreme youth, twenty-six will seem very old, and the joys and sorrows of a woman who has reached that mature age matters of but small importance. And yet, if the truth were told, the story of a woman who has passed her twenty-fifth year is, as a rule, far more interesting than the account of those trifles which make up the history of a girl.

She has lived-in all probability she has suffered, and through the suffering has gained sympathy, which is the magic guide to the hearts of others. Often, maybe, she does not know herself wherefore it is that, as the grey hairs begin to show amongst the brown ones, and the brilliancy of her complexion to fade, she finds that she makes truer, warmer friends, than in the days when, admired of all, she went forth but to conquer-forgetting that the conqueror does not always win as much love as the conquered.

And young girls in general are so hard, so unsympathetic, so occupied with their own little pleasures or worries, of which they must and will talk, that they rarely can spare a moment to listen to the recital of the joys and sorrows of others. Therefore men, and women too, of the "proud-wifeand-mother" type pass them by after a dance or a few words, and go further on seeking sympathy,on to one who is a little older-one who has passed the age for fretting over some one dancing whilst she is looking on, or worrying over the other thousand and one troubles of girlhood.

From all this you must not deduce the fact that

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