Mr. Delane was not at home--he had gone to Petty Sessions; and Dale, with regret, for he wanted to see the inside of the house, left his name--as usual he had forgotten to bring a card--and turned away. As he turned, a pony carriage drew up and a girl jumped out. Dale drew back to let her pass, raising his hat. The servant said a word to her, and when he had gone some ten or fifteen yards, he heard his name called. "Oh, Mr. Bannister, do come in! I expect papa back every minute, and he will be so sorry to miss you. Mamma is up in London; but I hope you'll come in." Dale had no idea of refusing the invitation given so cordially. He had been sorry to go away before, and the sight of Janet Delane made him more reluctant still. He followed her into the oak-paneled hall, hung with pictures of dead Delanes and furnished with couches and easy-chairs. "Well," she said, after tea was brought, "and what do you think of us?" "I have not seen very much of you yet." "As far as you have gone? And be candid." "You are very restful." She made a little grimace. "You mean very slow?" "Indeed I don't! I think you very interesting." "You find us interesting, but slow. Yes, you meant that, Mr. Bannister, and it's not kind." "Have your revenge by telling me what you think of me." "Oh, we find you interesting, too. We're all talking about you." "And slow?" "No, certainly not slow," she said, with a smile and a glance: the glance should be described, if it were describable, but it was not. Dale, however, understood it, for he replied, laughing: "They've been prejudicing you against me." "I don't despair of you. I think you may be reformed. But I'm afraid you're very bad just now." "Why do you think that? From what your father said?" "Partly. Partly also because Colonel Smith and Tora--do you know them?--are so enthusiastic about you." "Is that a bad sign?" "Terrible. They are quite revolutionary. So are you, aren't you?" "Not in private life." "But of course," she asked, with serious eyes, "you believe what you write?" "Well, I do; but you pay writers a compliment by saying 'of course.'" "Oh, I hope not! Anything is better than insincerity." "Even my opinions?" "Yes. Opinions may be changed, but not natures, you know." She was still looking at him with serious, inquiring eyes. The eyes were very fine eyes. Perhaps that was the reason why Dale thought the last remark so excellent. He said nothing, and she went on: "People who are clever and--and great, you know, ought to be so careful that they are right, oughtn't they?" "Oh, a rhymer rhymes as the fit takes him," answered he, with affected modesty. "I wouldn't believe that of you. You wouldn't misuse your powers like that." "You have read my poetry?" "Some of it." She paused and added, with a little blush for her companion: "There was some papa would not let me read."