“Yes, ma chere; to be epigrammatic, your faculties must be always in exercise. To let off those brilliant fireworks which astonish the world as wit, the match must be kept ever a-light, the hand ready.” “Mr. George Grenfell!” said the servant, throwing wide the door, and, after about two seconds’ interval, that former acquaintance of our reader entered the room, and was met by Sir Within with a blended polish and cordiality. “This is a kindness, Mr. Grenfell, that promises well for our future neighbourhood. I am most grateful to you for accepting my short-time invitation. My ward, Mademoiselle O’Hara.” He introduced her, as he had done to the Ladarelles the day before, as Mademoiselle; why, it would not have been so easy to say; perhaps to mystify, perhaps to avoid a difficulty, perhaps to create one; for Sir Within was a diplomatist, and one of these reasons to such a man is own brother of the other. Grenfell was evidently struck by her beauty; but there was something besides admiration in his gaze; he was surprised, and more than surprised; the traits were not altogether new to him, though the expression, lofty--haughty, even--unquestionably was. As for Kate, she had seen too few faces in life to have forgotten any one of them. They were like the books she had read, too remarkable not to be remembered. She knew him, and knew well the very hour and the very spot in which first she saw him. Either Grenfell had not heard the name, O’Hara, well, or had not connected it with the past; very possibly, he had not heard it ever before, for it suggested nothing to him; still her features continued to puzzle him; through all, however, was he enough man of the world to conceal any show of this; and, as he sat down beside the sofa where she sat, opened the usual common-places of first acquaintance. He spoke of the country and its charming scenery, especially around Dalradern, which was all new to him; “for I am ashamed,” added he, “to own, I know more of Switzerland than I do of Wales. Perhaps in this, Mademoiselle is a defaulter like myself?” Here was a question adroitly insinuated, to induce what might lead to some disclosure as to whence she came, or where she had been. “I am very fond of mountains,” said she, as if mistaking his question. “Ladies are the less selfish in their love of scenery,” resumed he, with a little smile, “that they do not connect mountains with grouse shooting. Now, I’m afraid a man in his admiration for the hill-side and the heather, has some lurking dreams about deer-stalking, and in the highland ‘tarn’ his thoughts invariably run on ten-pound trout.” “That is the practical side by which men assert their superiority, I believe; but perhaps they mistake occasionally; I suspect they do, at least.” “You mean, that women have the quality also?” “I fancy that women are not so prone to parade this egotism,” said she, with a slight flashing of the eye. “That may mean something very severe,” said he, laughing.