This was making such a personal matter of the question, that he did not exactly enjoy it. It was certainly not "good form" to pull a man up in such cool style. "Really," he replied, "I--ah--have had no opportunity of judging." He had not the slightest intention of being amusing, but to his infinite disgust he discovered as soon as he spoke that she was amused. She laughed outright, and evidently only checked herself because he looked so furious. In consideration for his feelings she assumed an air of mild but preternatural seriousness. "No," she remarked, "that is true: you haven't, of course." He was silent. He did not enjoy being amusing at all, and he made no pretence of appearing to submit to the indignity calmly. She bent forward a little. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "you are mad again--I mean, you are vexed. I am always vexing you." There was a hint of appeal in her voice, which rather pleased him; but he had no intention of relenting at once. "I confess I am at a loss to know why you laughed," he said. "Are you," she asked, "really?" letting her eyes rest upon him anxiously for a moment. Then she actually gave vent to a little sigh. "We look at things so differently, that's it," she said. "I suppose it is," he responded, still chillingly. In spite of this, she suddenly assumed a comparatively cheerful aspect. A happy thought occurred to her. "Lucia would beg your pardon," she said. "I am learning good manners from Lucia. Suppose I beg your pardon." "It is quite unnecessary," he replied. "Lucia wouldn't think so," she said. "And why shouldn't I be as well-behaved as Lucia? I beg your pardon." He felt rather absurd, and yet somewhat mollified. She had a way of looking at him, sometimes, when she had been unpleasant, which rather soothed him. In fact, he had found of late, a little to his private annoyance, that it was very easy for her either to soothe or disturb him. And now, just as Octavia had settled down into one of the prettiest and least difficult of her moods, there came a knock at the front door, which, being answered by Mary Anne, was found to announce the curate of St. James. Enter, consequently, the Rev. Arthur Poppleton,--blushing, a trifle timorous perhaps, but happy beyond measure to find himself in Miss Belinda's parlor again, with Miss Belinda's niece. Perhaps the least possible shade of his joyousness died out when he caught sight of Mr. Francis Barold, and certainly Mr. Francis Barold was not at all delighted to see him.