A quick impulse of vanity suggested--"could she have remained at home in expectation of my advent?" but a glance at her bonnet and shawl, as if just thrown off, and the slight disorder in the rich masses of her hair, completed my conviction that she had but just come in. "How sorry I am to have missed Colonel Vernon," said I, hypocritically; "I have been all the morning rambling about with your friend Mr. Winter, and have to thank you for introducing me to so admirable a guide." "I knew you would like him; but sit down, I am sure grandpapa will return soon. I see he did not intend to go farther than your Hotel, or he would have taken Cormac." And she pointed to the grave old hound, who lay stretched in the sunshine before the window and had partly risen on my appearance. I drew a chair opposite Miss Vernon, who resumed her occupation. "I am writing out the parts of some chants separately," said she, "not a very absorbing employment; Mr. Gilpin wishes his choir to get them up, and I volunteered my services." "Rather troublesome," said I, absently. "Oh no," said she, "I have nothing particular to do just now, and it is so dull to be idle." "I fancy A----, delightful as it is in our antiquarian or picturesque point of view, must be rather too tranquil a sojourn for so accomplished a valseuse as yourself." "I should have quite as little society anywhere else, and not half so many real _agrémens_; I never find it dull." "How does the Colonel amuse himself?" "Ah!" cried Miss Vernon with great earnestness, "I often think of that; it is such a change for him; such a total break-up of all his accustomed ways. I am often at my wits end to amuse him, yet he bears it wonderfully; how do you think him looking?" "Wonderfully well! never better, but in this sweet place with you he cannot be unhappy." "God forbid he should--a little sad sometimes." She was silent for a few moments, and then resumed her pen. I cannot describe how charming this visit was to me. Miss Vernon's little white hand wrote on busily all the time, while sometimes glancing up at me, but generally looking at her work. I felt none of the _gêne_ of a formal _tête à tête_, where the visitor and visited sit both upright, compelled to stare at each other; but leaning back in my chair, I talked and gazed at my ease. "I can hardly believe the evidence of my senses that I am in calm conversation with the _incognita_ who so puzzled me," I resumed after a pause. "Yes, it is very curious, but still more so that the discovery of our mutual acquaintance with Lady Desmond led to no _dénouement_," said my companion. "I knew her no further than meeting her frequently in society in Dublin, where I was about four years ago, with a cousin of mine, who was on the staff."