“I have a kind of idea,” he said, “that she must belong to people--I used to know. I may be mistaken, but still I have a notion she does. So don’t say anything, darling; don’t let her enter upon the subject.” “What subject?” said Rita, breathless. “Do you mean that you knew the--lady--in those old times that I know nothing about?” “I can’t tell,” said Harry; “if I knew her, it was as a child. But, Rita, you are always generous; you never have bothered me with questions. Don’t say anything to her, or to any of them, if they should question you--about me.” “About you!” Rita’s mind was partially relieved, but it was not in human nature to receive, without some retort, this curious commission. “What can I say about you? I know nothing,” she said, with a little bitterness. Then, as he turned and looked at her with unfeigned astonishment, “Oh, no, no, I do not mean that! I know everything, dear Harry, I know you; but nothing before you came here.” “That is true,” he said, thoughtfully. “I wonder if I ever shall be able to tell you--all about it?” The sight of Liddy and the sound of her name had worked upon him more than he had thought anything could. “Do! do!” cried Rita, all eagerness, clasping his arm with both her hands. He had never said so much to her before, and she, in fastidious delicacy, had not asked. He laughed now, but still with anxiety in his face. “At present I must get ready for dinner,” he said. “Ah! it is always like this,” cried Rita; “when you are in a humour to tell me, something happens, dinner, or something equally unimportant!” which was more like one of her early girlish outbursts than the matronly composure by which she liked to think herself distinguished now.