Scarcely were we entered, when two ladies presented themselves. I felt travel-worn and soiled, and wished my uncle had given me an opportunity of making myself a little fresher-looking before introducing me to his wife and daughter. I made a low bow and took my aunt’s hand; she welcomed me in a very mild and pleasing manner. My cousin Conny then came up to me and shook my hand, looking very shy and charming. _She_ was exceedingly pretty. Up to that time, I don’t think I had ever seen her equal. As to Pauline Gautier--pshaw! There was no comparison to be made. Pauline was brown; Conny had a skin of snow, and hair of gold, and large, modest, dark blue eyes, and a sweet and saucy nose, and a small mouth, and a transporting figure. I can’t describe the dress she wore. No man but a shopkeeper ought to be able to describe a woman’s costume. Shall I tell you why? because a woman’s style ought to be too perfect for a man to notice details. Depend upon it, there is something gross in that woman’s taste, whose dress, after leaving her, a man is able to describe. My aunt was a stout, healthy-looking woman, red-cheeked, with a most amiable cast of countenance. I was impressed by the size of her cap, and her walk, which was a waddle. My uncle pushed a chair forwards for me to be seated; he and the ladies then ranged themselves round me, and we began to converse. “I was delighted to hear from my brother. How is he?” “Very well indeed. He begged me to thank you heartily for the kindness of your offer to me, and to convey his love to you and Mrs. Hargrave, and your daughter.” “What a time he has lived at Longueville! Isn’t he sick of the place?” “No. We are both of us very fond of Longueville. I left it with great regret, I assure you.” “I wanted papa to take us there this summer,” said Conny, timidly, and then starting; like Fear in Collins’ Ode, at the sound she herself had made. “I dread the water, Mr. Charles,” observed my aunt. “And so does my father, or he would have been glad to accept your kind invitation.” “Is it long since you were in England?” asked Conny. “I have not been in England since I was six years old.” “Why, you must be a perfect Frenchman!” cried out my uncle and aunt in a breath. And then said my uncle: “You’ll find French very useful to you in business. How do you like the idea of being a banker?” “I know nothing about it,” I answered. I was proud of my ignorance. I believed it would impress Conny. I felt, in short, like the West-end gentleman who asked a friend where the city was. “We’ll soon teach you,” said my uncle, cheerily. “I wish you had made up your mind to live with us. I have taken lodgings for you in the town, as you desired, but I am sure you would have been more comfortable here.”