As soon as his ideas became enlightened on this subject, he began to stammer out a few of those incoherent sentences with which young men of no education are apt to try to express their meaning. "Upon my word--I--it is very strange now--I have a thousand apologies to--the most singular--I actually thought you--" "Yes," said Margaret quietly, in one moment recognizing her friend of the race course, "it is not the first time to-day you have thought I was not a 'young un.'" It would have done any artist good to have seen the officer's face. His line was a bad one, but he was not first rate in his line--not a Lovelace, or a Pelham. He had not learned to be found out with a good grace. Like Fag, it hurt his conscience. He changed colour, and looked a good deal smaller than usual. Of course the first thing he did was to tell a lie. He hoped he had not pushed against her in the stand--some people behind, had been pressing upon him so scandalously, that he almost feared he had inconvenienced some ladies in the front of the stand; he hoped it had not been the case. Margaret, rather amused at the way in which he got through the difficulty, made some slight reply, and took her place at the table. By some accident she was separated from the hero of the race course, and found herself between Mr. Haveloc, and Hubert Gage. Harriet Conway, still in her riding habit, sat on the other side of the said hero. "Hubert, cannot you save Margaret the trouble of carving that dish, whatever it is?" said Harriet, seeing that Margaret looked embarrassed at the task. "I could, but I do not wish it," said Hubert. "It is so very becoming," he added in a low voice to Margaret, "ladies with such beautiful arms should always carve." "I wish you would help me, instead of talking nonsense," said Margaret, who was colouring very much under the impression that two or three persons had their eyes fixed on her, "you see how disagreeable it is to me." Before she had done speaking, Mr. Haveloc had taken the knife and fork from her hands. "That's right," said Harriet, speaking across to Mr. Haveloc. "I do wish you would go to the ball, Harriet," said Hubert. "Don't you really go the ball?" echoed Mr. Elliot, the hero before mentioned, "how can you be so cruel as to remain at home?" "Yes--you wish to dance with me, don't you?" said Harriet, turning suddenly round upon him. "I'll tell you why I don't go. I detest dancing; unless one could hire a partner as they do in Flanders, and the man felt his value to be one kreutzer, and no more." A good many men can get on very well with people who are exactly like every body they are in the habit of meeting, but any thing like a character puts them quite out. So Mr. Elliot got up a little laugh and was silent. At last, he enquired of Harriet what amusement she preferred to dancing. "Pistol shooting," said Harriet. "There's the man with the champagne. Don't you take any?" "You take no wine?" said Mr. Elliot.