"Lady de Clare has entered into society again, and her daughter, as you call her--your Fleta, _alias_ Cecilia de Clare--is the belle of the metropolis. But now, sir, as I have answered all your interrogatories, and satisfied you upon the most essential points, will you favour me with a narrative of your adventures, (for adventures I am sure you must have had,) since you ran away from us all in that ungrateful manner." "Most certainly, sir, I will; and, as you say, I have had adventures. But it really will be a long story." "Then we'll dine here, and pass the evening together--so that's settled." PART THREE, CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. IN WHICH I AM LET INTO MORE PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO MY FATHER'S HISTORY. I dismissed the coach, while Mr Masterton gave his orders for dinner, and we then turned the key of the door to avoid intrusion, and I commenced. It was nearly dinner-time before I had finished my story. "Well, you really appear to be born for getting into scrapes, and getting out of them again in a miraculous way," observed Mr Masterton. "Your life would make a novel." "It would indeed, sir," replied I. "I only hope, like all novels, it will wind up well." "So do I; but dinner's ready, Japhet, and after dinner we'll talk the matter over again, for there are some points upon which I require some explanation." We sat down to dinner, and when we had finished, and the table had been cleared, we drew to the fire, with our bottle of wine. Mr Masterton stirred the fire, called for his slippers, and then crossing his legs over the fender, resumed the subject.