Let me not be misunderstood. This same sentiment can be at times something very different from a mere egotism--not that I mean to say it was such in the present case. Cecil Walpole fully represented the order he belonged to, and was a most well-looking, well-dressed, and well-bred young gentleman, only suggesting the reflection that, to live amongst such a class pure and undiluted, would be little better than a life passed in the midst of French communism. I have said that, after his fashion, he was ‘in love’ with her, and so, after his fashion, he wanted to say that he was going away, and to tell her not to be utterly disconsolate till he came back again. ‘I can imagine,’ thought he, ‘how I made her life here, how, in developing the features that attract _me_, I made her a very different creature to herself.’ It was not at all unpleasant to him to think that the people who should surround her were so unlike himself. ‘The barbarians,’ as he courteously called them to himself, ‘will be very hard to endure. Nor am I very sorry for it, only she must catch nothing of their traits in accommodating herself to their habits. On that I must strongly insist. Whether it be by singing their silly ballads--that four-note melody they call “Irish music,” or through mere imitation, she has already caught a slight accent of the country. She must get rid of this. She will have to divest herself of all her “Kilgobbinries” ere I present her to my friends in town.’ Apart from these disparagements, she could, as he expressed it, ‘hold her own,’ and people take a very narrow view of the social dealings of the world, who fail to see how much occasion a woman has for the exercise of tact and temper and discretion and ready-wittedness and generosity in all the well-bred intercourse of life. Just as Walpole had arrived at that stage of reflection to recognise that she was exactly the woman to suit him and push his fortunes with the world, he reached a part of the wood where a little space had been cleared, and a few rustic seats scattered about to make a halting-place. The sound of voices caught his ear, and he stopped, and now, looking stealthily through the brushwood, he saw Gorman O’Shea as he lay in a lounging attitude on a bench and smoked his cigar, while Nina Kostalergi was busily engaged in pinning up the skirt of her dress in a festoon fashion, which, to Cecil’s ideas at least, displayed more of a marvellously pretty instep and ankle than he thought strictly warranted. Puzzling as this seemed, the first words she spoke gave the explanation. [Illustration: Nina Kostalergi was busily engaged in pinning up the skirt of her dress]