Could anything be more commonplace? The Vice-Consul went before them with Lady Brotherton, Sir John hobbled after them with Rita. On either side there were a few words being said. Lady Brotherton on the one hand pouring praises of Rita’s developed beauty into her father’s pleased ears, while old Sir John spluttered forth his remarks on the other. “Fathers’sh an evergreen, my dear. Look’sh ashyoung ash’ever he did. Bloomin’, bloomin’, like yourshelf.” Between these two, feeling a little tremor in the arm she touched lightly with her hand. Lydia walked with her silent companion. He did not say a word, and neither did she. But her heart began to beat: there seemed something strange and exciting in the air. She felt suspicious of him as if he had been a criminal; why did he not speak? It was scarcely any better at dinner. There was a great deal of talk at table, and much liveliness, but in this he took little share. When Lydia looked away to the other end of the table, or talked to anyone else, she invariably found his eye upon her when she returned to herself; but he said nothing except in answer to what was said to him; either he was a very stupid man, or--something else. She became so impatient at last that she turned to him boldly, provoked by his silence. “Mr. Oliver,” she said, “I know some one of your name in the North-country.” He seemed to perceive with an effort that she was actually addressing himself; but turned to her quickly, as if prepared for the attack. “My name is not a very uncommon name,” he said. “Oliver is not; but Isaac Oliver is surely very uncommon--it made me stare when I heard it. I thought you must be a messenger from home.” Lydia felt herself grow important in her excitement. “Our Isaac Oliver is a very well-known person. Cousin Lionel, you know him too!” It was a most unjustifiable attack; and to compromise Lionel too! Lady Brotherton stopped short in the midst of something she was saying, in her dismay at this contradiction of all her instructions, and this called the attention of the whole table to what Lydia was saying. There was a general pause in which every word was distinctly audible. “Everybody knows him,” said Liddy, “in our countryside.” And then they all looked at Harry, upon whose countenance there came a slight shade of colour. “Is it so?” he said; “but he is no relation of mine.” “How can you tell,” the audacious girl went on, “when you do not even know what countryside I mean?” “Harry,” said Rita, leaning across the table, “what is Miss Joscelyn saying to you? You have forgotten your favourite dish, which was made expressly for you. Look, there is Antonio waiting, and cannot make you understand.”