Mary rose quickly, her clear eyes showing such obvious pleasure that Käthchen was inclined to be indignant. ’Mamie, have you no pride!’ Käthchen said in her heart. ’It is not becoming in a young woman to be so grateful—for an ordinary piece of civility. And Mary Stanley of all people!’ Well, Mary Stanley did not seem to be governed by any such considerations; she went forward to receive her visitor with the frankest smile of welcome lighting up her face; the magic-working dimple did its part. "I am so glad you have called," said she, "for I was thinking of writing to you, and I was not sure whether you were at Heimra. We have not seen the yacht coming and going of late." "No," said he, as he took the chair nearest her (and Käthchen remarked that his eyes, too, showed pleasure, if less openly declared), "I went down as far as Portree in the _Consuelo_—or I would have called before now. Did you want to see me about—about anything?" And this question he asked with a curious simplicity and directness of manner. There was none of the self-consciousness of a young man addressing a remarkably pretty young woman. It was rather like an offer of neighbourly help: what trouble was she in now? "I was wondering," she made answer, with a little timidity, "whether you would care to go out on the Twelfth with my brother and Mr. Meredyth. It is not a very grand shooting, as you know; but you would get some little amusement, I suppose; and Miss Glendinning and I would come and have lunch with you—if we were not in the way." This ought to have been a sufficiently attractive invitation; but the observant Käthchen noticed that the young man hesitated. "Thank you very much," said he; "it is most kind of you to have thought of me; but the fact is I’m not much of a shot, and I shouldn’t like to spoil the bag. Of course, your brother will want to see what the moor can yield; and with fair shooting two guns should give a very good account of Lochgarra; so that it would be really a pity to spoil the Twelfth by bringing in a useless gun. Thank you all the same for thinking of me——" "Oh, perhaps you don’t care about shooting?" said Mary. "Perhaps you are fonder of fishing?" And hardly were the words out of her mouth when some sudden recollection of that phantom poacher rushed in upon her mind; a hideous dread possessed her; how could she have been so unutterably indiscreet? Not only that, but there was yesterday’s incident of the hurling of the stone into the salmon-pool: would he imagine that she suspected him—that she was probing into a guilty knowledge? She was bewildered by what she had done; and yet determined to betray no consciousness of her blunder. A ghastly and protracted silence seemed to follow her question; but that was merely imagination on her part; he answered her at once—and that in the most natural manner, without a trace of embarrassment.