“It’s only a question or two I want to ask,” I urged, as soothingly and reassuringly as I could; for, in truth, had there been fifty “somebodies coming,” there was nothing to be alarmed at. “Something you can tell me about—about your mistress.” I bounced it out, thinking it better we should understand each other at once. “Oh!” replied Justine, this time in a perfectly audible voice. “And what may you please to want to know, Mr. Softly, about _my_ lady?” “I want to know _everything_ about her,” said I; slipping, at the same time, a little profile of her Majesty, raised in gold, into Justine’s hand, which delicate compliment was acknowledged by the least perceptible squeeze. “When did she arrive? When is she going away again? Where did she come from? Where does she live when she is at home? Is she young or middle-aged? Of course she’s very beautiful, or she couldn’t afford to take about with her such a pretty maid as _you_!” The latter clause of my sentence I considered, not without reason, a master-stroke of diplomacy, and I strove to enhance its effect by again possessing myself of Justine’s hand; a manœuvre she neutralised by placing both her own in her apron-pockets, leaving the basket to take care of itself. “Why, ain’t you a hunting gentleman?” asked she, in her turn, somewhat inconsequently, as I thought. “I made sure you was a hunting gentleman, by your broken bones; and I thought every hunting gentleman knew my lady. She’s just come from the Castle—my lady. She’ll stay here exactly as long as suits her fancy, and not a moment longer. Bless you, Mr. Softly, we might never stir a foot from here this side of Easter; and we _might_ be off, bag and baggage, first thing to-morrow morning. She’s a quiet lady, mine: a quieter lady than Miss Merlin I never wish to dress and do for; but when she says a thing, she _means_ it, Mr. Softly, and horses couldn’t draw her the way she hasn’t a mind to go.” “And is she so very beautiful?” I inquired, determined to know the worst of this Amazon at once. Justine looked up from under her long eyelashes (she was a very pretty girl—this Justine), and shook her head, and smiled. “That depends upon taste, Mr. Softly,” replied she, shooting such a glance at me the while, as I have no doubt had often done irreparable injury amongst her adorers. “Some gentlemen doesn’t admire such a pale grave lady with dark eyes and hair. She’s a slight figure, too, has Miss Merlin; and, for as tall as she is, her waist is as small as mine. For goodness’ sake, Mr. Softly, here’s the waiter coming along the passage!” and without giving me any more information as to the size of Miss Merlin’s waist, or further opportunity of measuring her own, Justine darted up the staircase, and was soon lost in the sacred retreat of her mistress’s apartment.