“She is very pretty, isn’t she? Her fair hair will keep her a young looking woman when she is far beyond middle-age. I only wonder she hasn’t married long ago. But they live as quietly at Grove End as we do, and their neighbours are about as cheerful and hospitable as ours.” She closed the album and added, “If you marry her, I hope you’ll both be happy. You’ll find her staunch, I am sure, if once you succeed in winning her love.” “I am sure of that, too. What deep eyes she has! Her character has sometimes puzzled me. Her mind is so nimble, that it seems to be frisking about in a dozen meanings at once.” “That kind of nimbleness makes a woman charming. Your plain-speaker is rarely followed by the men.” “There are so few men of whom anything complimentary can be said, that there is little marvel we should shun candid women. It would have done me good had you continued your downright part for a week or two; you would have taught me to know some of my weaknesses. As it is, I should say I have not lost less than three pounds weight of conceit since yesterday.” “But what have I lost? First impressions are everything--and I question if you will ever overcome the dislike of me I tried to produce.” “I am not so stubborn as you think. But you hate compliments, and so I’ll hold my tongue, lest I should be misconstrued.” To this she made no reply; but, leaving her chair, went to the window, where she stood for a minute or two. I could not help watching her fine figure with admiration. Had Conny been present I could not have admired Theresa less. I had already heard and seen enough to enable me to judge how odious the character she had assumed must have been to her, and the glad relief with which she had flung it aside. But what resolution was hers to give her strength to carry out so singular an imposture! What force of character needful to beat down and silence those instincts which, as certainly as she was a woman, would clamour for quite a different construction from what she was determined I should put upon her nature! “I desired the footman,” said she, approaching me, “to apologise to you this morning; but in order to get him to do so, I had to invent a little fable, which, no doubt, you will call a fib. I told him you were not the gentleman I had expected--leaving him to make out the riddle as his Irish brains best could. In one sense, you are _not_ the gentleman I had expected. Still, unavoidable as the equivocation was, it annoys me intensely. True it is that one folly begets another, and a worse. I must devise some expiation. Exact some penance--I promise you shall be obeyed.” Now where was my wit, that I didn’t say something handsome? ’Twas ever thus. A capital answer occurred next day. But it was too late. “I want nothing but your good opinion. I have innocently put you to a great deal of trouble. All I require is your forgiveness for having made you very uneasy.”