He entered the drawing-room, sat down upon one of the many lounging chairs with which it was filled, and waited. He did not have to wait long. A rapid step was soon heard descending the stairs, and in a few minutes a lady entered. She came in with a bright smile of welcome on her face, and greeted him with much warmth. Mrs. Thornton was very striking in her appearance. A clear olive complexion and large, dark hazel eyes marked Southern blood. Her hair was black, wavy, and exceedingly luxuriant. Her mouth was small, her hands and feet delicately shaped, and her figure slender and elegant. Her whole air had that indefinable grace which is the sign of high-breeding; to this there was added exceeding loveliness, with great animation of face and elegance of manner. She was a perfect lady, yet not of the English stamp; for her looks and manner had not that cold and phlegmatic air which England fosters. She looked rather like some Italian beauty--like those which enchant us as they smile from the walls of the picture-galleries of Italy. “I am so glad you have come!” said she. “It is so stupid here, and I expected you an hour ago.” “Oh, if I had only known that!” said Despard. “For, do you know, I have been dying of ennui.” “I hope that I may be the means of dispelling it.” “As surely so as the sun disperses the clouds.” “You are never at a loss for a compliment.” “Never when I am with you.” These few words were spoken with a smile by each, and a slightly melodramatic gesture, as though each was conscious of a little extravagance. “You must be glad to get to your old home,” she resumed. “You lived here fifteen, no, sixteen years, you know.” “Eighteen.” “So it was. I was sixteen when you left.” “Never to see you again till I came back,” said Despard, with some mournfulness, looking at the floor. “And since then all has changed.” “But I have not,” rejoined Despard, in the same tone. Mrs. Thornton said nothing for a moment. “By-the-way, I’ve been reading such a nice book,” she resumed. “It has just come out, and is making a sensation. It would suit you, I know.” “What is it?” She rose and lifted a book from the table, which she handed to him. He took it, and read the title out loud. “Christian’s Cross.” A strange expression passed over his face. He looked at her, holding the book out at arms’-length with feigned consternation. “And do you have the heart to recommend this book to me, Mrs. Thornton?” “Why not?” “Why, it’s religious. Religious books are my terror. How could I possibly open a book like this?” She laughed. “You are mistaken,” she said. “It is an ordinary novel, and for the sake of your peace of mind I assure you that there is not a particle of religion in it. But why should you look with such repugnance upon it? The expression of your face is simply horror.”