When first we sat down to dinner, Cave Charteris appeared to be so much overcome by the news he had heard, as to be rendered almost silent. Every moment or so, I detected him glancing furtively at my mourning dress and pallid features, and he answered the questions addressed to him by Mr. Lovett in monosyllables. I suppose he felt sorry that he had wounded my feelings, and the occasion of his doing so had revived some remembrance of the many little kindnesses he had received at the hands of my dear mother when she had imagined she was showing an interest in the affairs of the man who was to become her son-in-law. However, under the influence of the good dinner that Madame had prepared for us, and the good wine which had suddenly made its appearance on the table—heaven alone knows from where, for these unusual luxuries had a habit of springing into existence with us as unexpectedly as if they had been shot up through a trap-door at a stage banquet—Mr. Charteris soon shook off his temporary embarrassment, and became the most talkative of the company. Of course he was informed of the importance of the day, and insisted upon our drinking the little maid’s health with three times three. Strange to say, I joined in these birthday congratulations almost as readily as if nothing had occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the morning. If I were a little paler and more silent than usual, the Lovetts attributed it to the suddenness with which I had encountered my mother’s friend, and Mr. Charteris had no notion that I had been otherwise since I had lost her. When conversation had been restored amongst us, he addressed the greater part of his to myself, taking care, however, not to make the slightest allusion to the old days at Norwood. ‘I should think that seeing me walk in here, Miss Marsh’ (I perceived, with gratitude, that he had quite dropped his old familiar habit of calling me ‘Hilda’), ‘must have been almost as great a surprise to you as meeting you was to me. And it all came about by the most remarkable coincidence possible. Have you told Miss Marsh where you met me?’ he added, turning to Mr. Lovett. ‘I have not. I wish now that I had, but my girls there wanted to astonish her with the appearance of a young man (young men being a rarity in St. Pucelle), and kept your identity a dead secret until you stood upon the very threshold.’ ‘Ah! just so. Well, Miss Marsh, I had been staying in Paris for the last three months, and had promised my uncle, Sir John Stephenson, to visit his son at Rille before I returned home again.’ ‘Sir John Stephenson’s son! What, Fred Stephenson?’ I exclaimed, roused into interest. ‘Yes; do you know them? By Jove! now you mention it, I remember Fred telling me he had crossed to Antwerp after the summer holidays with a Miss Marsh, who was going to Artois. And it never struck me for a moment that it could be you. How strangely things do turn out! Fancy! the very name itself not arousing my curiosity.’