Captain Haig got upon his legs with some reluctance, gave himself a little shake, stamped down his trousers, and in another moment was walking away in the footsteps of his mentor. CHAPTER II Sir Horace, followed by his nephew, made his way briskly to the well, and having cast one searching glance among the crowd, immediately descended the steps, where in a few moments, he and Captain Haig found themselves wedged in closest proximity to Madame de Godez. On nearer inspection, she really proved to be one of the ugliest old women in Homburg, in spite of her costly clothes, elaborate black wig, and brilliant earrings: but it was a shrewd--nay, a clever face; and the countenance expressed not only determination, but animation. Madame instantly accosted her neighbour in a sort of bleating foreign key, each syllable most distinctly articulated. "Oh ho, my friend! so here you are! Just get my glass filled, will you? it is my own propertee," and as she spoke Madame handed Sir Horace a gorgeous red and gold tumbler. "This ees your nephew, ees it not?" and she looked up at Malcolm, with an eager twinkling gaze, and nodded her head with an air of affable encouragement. "Good Lord!" he said to himself, "why the old woman talks the purest Chi-Chi!" Meanwhile the old woman was inspecting him with her quick black eyes, and as he swept off his Homburg hat, and stood momentarily bare-headed, she was aware of his shining locks, deep blue eyes and winning smile (oh, the hypocrite!). Here was a young man, with the face of the hero in a picture-book. Between two sips of water she remarked: "Your nephew is not one beet like you, Sir Horace. He is quite nice-looking." "Oh, but, dear lady, you should have seen _me_ at his age," protested the Baronet, with a ludicrous effort to look languishing, but the beetling brows frustrated the attempt. "Now do not pretend that you were handsome," she retorted, giving him a playful poke, "for I will nott believe eet." "How cruel of you, madame," he rejoined, as he took her tumbler and held it, whilst he gazed down into her swarthy, wrinkled face with an air of melancholy reproach, "when I am prepared to believe anything you tell me, and to swear that you were the belle of--was it Lisbon?" "Verona," screeched the quondam beauty, ignoring Sir Horace and his tender question--"where is Dog Darling? Do take care that he is not trampled on." "He is all right, auntie," replied her niece, "I left him with the Prince." "Ah," with a gasp of relief, "then thatt is arl-right. This is Sir Horace's nephew, Verona--my niece, Miss Chandos." The young lady looked at Malcolm gravely, and inclined her head an inch or two. Unlike her aunt, her appearance challenged the most critical inspection, and bore, triumphantly, the ordeal of a searching gaze. The shape of her face was perfect, her beautiful dark eyes were merry and intelligent, but the short upper lip was slightly--slightly--supercilious.