"So, Lady Amabel is a relation of Mr Daveney's!" said he--"that is charming--there is a kind of cousinship between us. Nay, don't look so demure, you chill me, and I intend that we shall be the best friends in the world. Let us make that bargain." He was so tall, he had to bend low to look into my face, which was covered with confusion; for I was unaccustomed to such familiarity. It took me by surprise; but, ah! the fatal air which men assume when they would please--those earnest looks, those low-pleading whispers. I forgot to look for my father, and seated myself on Clarence's right hand at the foot of the table. A magnificent bouquet of flowers almost hid Lady Amabel from my view, my eyes were bewildered with the blaze of candelabra and silver covers, and the uniforms of scarlet, and gold, and blue, mingled with the lighter hues of women's dresses; but, at length, I met the eye of Lady Amabel: she smiled, nodded, indicated by a gesture to my father that I was in my proper place, and by one to me that she was satisfied; and, indeed, so was I. Sir Adrian Fairfax's attention was thus called to us--he looked at his nephew and laughed; we were the last to be seated. "Incorrigible Clarence," cried the General, shaking his head; "lingering behind--again late. Too bad, too bad." "Do you see that showy woman opposite my uncle?" whispered Clarence Fairfax to me. I glanced across the table, and replied in the affirmative. "She is the wife of an official, and falls to my lot generally. I escaped her to-night. See, my uncle is smiling; he knows why I lingered; he excuses me, of course. You are my apology." "I must take Major Fairfax's part," said the Indian Governor: "he may be late for dinner, General, but he is always first in the field, you know." "And the last," replied Sir Adrian, laughing; "you see I have the best of the argument after all. Fairfax, the soup will be cold." Everything that passed at the dinner-table on that memorable day is noted in my diary. I have not looked over it for three years. I need scarcely do so now; for, as I write, the tide of memory swells high, and trifles rise to the surface.