HARLEY.--"True. But if years have not stood still for you, they have not been stationary for me. There is the same difference between us now that there was then. And, therefore, permit me still to call you child, and as child to treat you!" VIOLANTE.--"I will do no such thing. Do you know that I always thought I was good-tempered till this morning." HARLEY.--"And what undeceived you? Did you break your doll?" VIOLANTE, (with an indignant flash from her dark eyes).--"There!--again!--you delight in provoking me!" HARLEY.--"It _was_ the doll, then. Don't cry; I will get you another." Violante plucked her arm from him, and walked away towards the Countess in speechless scorn. Harley's brow contracted, in thought and in gloom. He stood still for a moment or so, and then joined the ladies. "I am trespassing sadly on your morning; but I wait for a visiter whom I sent to before you were up. He is to be here at twelve. With your permission, I will dine with you to-morrow, and you will invite him to meet me." "Certainly. And who is your friend? I guess--the young author?" "Leonard Fairfield," cried Violante, who had conquered, or felt ashamed, of her short-lived anger. "Fairfield!" repeated Lady Lansmere. "I thought, Harley, you said the name was Oran." "He has assumed the latter name. He is the son of Mark Fairfield, who married an Avenel. Did you recognise no family likeness?--none in those eyes,--mother?" said Harley, sinking his voice into a whisper. "No," answered the Countess, falteringly. Harley, observing that Violante was now speaking to Helen about Leonard, and that neither was listening to him, resumed in the same low tone, "And his mother--Nora's sister--shrank from seeing me! That is the reason why I wished you not to call. She has not told the young man _why_ she shrank from seeing me; nor have I explained it to him, as yet. Perhaps I never shall." "Indeed, dearest Harley," said the Countess, with great gentleness, "I wish you too much to forget the folly--well, I will not say that word--the sorrows, of your boyhood, not to hope that you will rather strive against such painful memories than renew them by unnecessary confidence to any one; least of all to the relation of--" "Enough!--don't name her; the very name pains me. And as to confidence, there are but two persons in the world to whom I ever bare the old wounds--yourself and Egerton. Let this pass. Ha!--a ring at the bell--that is he!" CHAPTER XI.