“I never took it willingly, my lord,” I replied, “although it is mine, I believe, by right. I was driven out of France very early, and probably never should have known of my countship; but it so happened that I formed some connections in the city of Hamburgh, which led to a considerable bequest from an old friend there, and that caused a communication, in regard to myself, to take place between Hamburgh and England.” “But how did they know that you were a count, in Hamburgh, if you did not know it yourself?” asked the earl. “By a letter from England,” I answered, perhaps a little dryly. “It referred to some money matters, of which, to say the truth, I understand nothing; but it was addressed to some of the authorities at Hamburgh, and in it I was designated by the title of count. The same title was repeated in after correspondence, and thus it happened to be given to me here, much to my annoyance; for I would fain drop the countship altogether, not having the means to maintain any distinguished position.” “Ha! I see, I see,” said the earl, “you speak English remarkably well, Mr. De Lacy. You must have learned it very young.” “I do not remember the time when I did not speak it,” I replied. “That is singular in France,” rejoined the old nobleman. “Did your father speak English?” I could feel a cloud come over my face, and I replied with very painful feelings, “I never knew my father, my lord, and am not aware of who or what he was. I have heard that he was murdered—but that is all I know.” “I beg pardon—I beg pardon,” said the old earl; “I did not intend to wound you. There are painful subjects in all families—may I drink wine with you?” During the rest of the evening his tone toward me became a little less stiff and more kindly. He asked no more questions, however, but conversed entirely upon indifferent subjects, and seemed well pleased with my remarks. He retired early, indeed, and I remained for some time longer, in the hope of being able to draw something more from Westover, regarding his aunt, Lady Catharine. I had lost the opportunity of the favorable ten minutes during which I was alone with him before dinner, and no other presented itself for any private conversation. I could only venture to express a hope before others, that his aunt, Lady Catharine, had not suffered seriously from the fatigues of the review. He said she had not been at all well since; and I remarked that I thought her very beautiful. “She was once the loveliest creature in all England, I am told,” was my friend’s reply; “but that is past, and she can hardly, I think, be called beautiful now—except, indeed, as a beautiful ruin.”