She looked at him in surprise. The proud, beautiful face grieved at the words. "How is that?" she asked. "I saw you this morning when I was going to Rashleigh with my friend, Sir Frank Euston. You were standing against a white gate, and I thought--well, I must not tell you what I thought." "Why?" she asked, briefly. "Because it might offend you," he replied. He began to perceive that there was no coquetry in this beautiful girl. She was proud, with a calm, serene, half-tragic pride. There would be no flirtation by the side of the mill-stream. She looked as far above coquetry as she was above affectation. He liked the proud calm of her manner. She might have been a duchess holding court rather than a country girl sitting by a mill-wheel. The idea occurred to him; and then his wonder increased--who was she? and what was she doing here? "Do you live near here?" he asked. "Yes," she said, "behind the trees there you can see the chimneys of a farmhouse; it is called Rashleigh Farm; my uncle, Robert Noel, lives there; and I am his niece." "His niece," repeated the young man, in an incredulous voice. She was a farmer's niece, then, after all; and yet she looked like a Spanish princess. "You do not look like an English girl," he said, gravely. "My father was English and my mother a Spanish lady; and I--well, I fear I have more of the hot fire of Spain than of the chill of England in my nature; my face is Spanish, so is my heart." "A Spaniard is quick to love, quick to hate; forgives grandly and revenges mercilessly," he said. "That is my character," she said; "you have described it exactly." "I do not believe it; neither hate nor revenge could exist with a face like yours. Then your name is Noel?" "Yes, my name is Leone Noel," she replied. "Leone," he repeated, "that is a beautiful name. I have never heard it before; but I like it very much; it is musical and rare--two great things in a name." "It is a German name," she said. "My uncle Robert hates it; he says it reminds him of Lion; but you know it is pronounced Leon. My mother read some German story that had the name in it and gave it to me." "It suits you," he said, simply; "and I should not think there was another name in the world that would. I wonder," he added, with a shy laugh, "if you would like my name? It is Lancelot Chandos. My friends call me Lance." "Yes, I like that. I know all the history of Sir Lancelot. I admire him; but I think he was a weak man--do not you?" "For loving Queen Guinevere? I do not know. Some love is strength, not weakness," he replied. Leone looked up at him again. "Are you the son of a great lord?" she asked; "some one told me so." "Yes; my father is Earl of Lanswell; and people would call him a great earl. He is rich and powerful." "What has brought you, the son of a great earl, down to Rashleigh?" she asked. "My own idleness, to begin with," he said. "I have been at Oxford more years than I care to count; and I have idled my time."