"By heavens, you know them all! Who are you? Pray, tell me; confide in my honour--I have never broken faith in my life!" A sigh, almost a sob, escaped from her bosom. He turned amazed. Tremenhere was not a vain man, but the strangeness of the whole scene made him ask himself, whether it might not be some love-sick girl's _escapade_; but the question, for which he could find no answer, was, "Who can she be?" Her abrupt mention of Lady Dora's name confirmed this idea. "Lady Dora is here," he said, "that is, she was to be; but I came alone. I have seen no one but yourself, my fair incognita, and now let me ask, wherefore were you beneath the clock?" "Because--because, 'tis a good point for observation; and I was looking for some one." "Then I have carried you away--shall we seek them?" "No, I am content; that is, I have changed my mind." "How did you know the reputation 'the clock' has as a point of observation, as you term it; _we_ call it one of _rendezvous_--have you been here often?" "Heaven forbid! 'tis my _first_ visit." "Indeed! then a powerful motive must have urged you to take so hazardous a step, if in truth, as I believe, you are connected with some one of Lady Lysson's society, and here _en cachette_." "I have a motive--let it rest; I am satisfied it should do so; but having had it, I was told _sous l'horloge_ I should most probably see every one in the saloon better than elsewhere." "Well, _mon domino_, you are a mystery; in truth, 'tis a scene from the _Domino Noir_. I would I were the happy Horace; I dare not think so." She was perfectly silent. "Surely I have no fair _pensionnaire_ escaped from her convent, at my side?" "No, truly--one her own mistress. Is not Lady Dora Vaughan very handsome?" "Very!" and he started at the sudden transition in her speech. "Don't you know her?" "Well; but I wished to hear your opinion as an artist--you must be better enabled to judge than I can." "Now tell me when you saw her last? Give me at least a chance of guessing who you are?" She paused an instant, then added, "Yesterday, walking with you in the Tuileries, and with several other ladies." "True! _Pray_, tell me something of yourself; let me see your eyes, your mouth, or hand," and he took the one resting on her knee. "Not for worlds!" she exclaimed in unmistakable terror, clasping them together. "Do not be alarmed, I would not use any violence; you are with one incapable of an ungentlemanly act, I trust." "I know _that_," she said emphatically, "or of one wilfully unkind or cruel, if you allowed your heart to act freely." "For mercy's sake, what do you mean? I entreat you tell me who you are. I swear to you, your secret shall be safe." A strange, unaccountable tremor crept over him, yet without a suspicion of any thing approaching the truth. "I cannot, dare not--I would I durst!" and again she sighed.