“Yes, indeed; she’s queer notions, but she is real kind-hearted. I’ve asked her to correct me when I’m doing the wrong thing.” “She’s so feather-headed, you must not rely on her; better come to _me_.” “So I will, with a heart and a half.” “You will soon become accustomed to us and our ways. Be yourself--be gay, my dear; another young voice in the house is a great pleasure to me.” “But not a South Cork brogue! Ye can’t call _that_ nice?” “Yes, I can; it reminds me of old days. Your mother had most wonderful spirits; she was the happiest----” he stopped. “Well, here I see her ladyship coming in her motor; you had better go and get ready for tea; she likes young people to be punctual--remember that, dear.” “Yes; and we were so late for lunch! But I had to tidy my hair; it was like a furze bush. I won’t have any tea. I must unpack, and tidy up my things; but I’ll come down early.” “If you do, then we can have a talk. Dinner is at eight. I believe Dudley is expected.” Joseline, having arranged her belongings in her own way, dressed early, and descended to the yellow drawing-room, in order to have a good half-hour with the magazines, and the promised talk with her father, before the crowd came. Absorbed in a story, she did not hear the door open. Captain Deverell entered; he had just arrived by train. At first he supposed the room was empty, but, seeing a white skirt billowing round the sides of an arm-chair near the fire, he called out, “Hullo, Tito! Is that you? Has the wild Irish girl arrived?” The figure sat up, rose slowly to her feet, and confronted him. No, it was not Tito, but a far better-looking young lady, wearing a white gown and a turquoise necklace, who replied, “Yes, she has come--in fact, here she is!” dropping a curtsey. “But she’s not very, very wild at present.” He surveyed her gravely. “I beg your pardon. So you must be Lady Joseline?” She nodded. “And I have the honour to present your cousin, once removed, Dudley Deverell”; and he made a profound, half-ironical inclination. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you from Tito”; and she sat down and took up her book with an air of calm detachment. “I’ve seen you before somewhere, I think,” he announced, after a puzzled silence. “Have you really?” And again her eyes wandered to the page. “It is not considered polite to read--er--when you have some one to talk to.” She closed her book, and said, “Excuse me, please, I have not learnt manners yet. I will not read, but I am awfully interested in the story.” “And not in the least in _me_, eh? How crushing!” She coloured up to her hair. “I have it!” he shouted triumphantly. “What have you caught?” she demanded, with brisk curiosity. “You, bless my soul!” Here he sat down. “Why, you are the girl at the gate. Yes, I recognise your eyes, though you are dressed up. You cannot have forgotten us--the motor people! And my friend Harry Coxford had a row with your young man. Don’t you remember?”