Mr. Stevens watched her narrowly; how curiously unlike Mrs. Drayton she was, and yet something--that indescribable and subtle resemblance which comes out in tricks of manner more than in feature--would have caused Grace to be known any where as Margaret's sister. He began to describe Inchbrae to her, but she stopped him hurriedly. "Pray do not begin about it for I know it by heart--Margaret writes about nothing else, and, as for Mrs. Dorriman, I do not know whether she or Jean talk most about it. Clear crystal sea--soft shadows on the mountains, sometimes clouds (always clouds _I_ should say!)--sharp crags, fir-trees beautiful with red stems, beautiful without, waterfall, rowan-trees, scarlet geraniums, _and_ a grey house. There, do I know my lesson, or do I not? The idea of your beginning too!" Mr. Stevens went off into a fit of laughter, and he was one of the men who laughed with merriment, so many are noisy and not merry. In the midst of this hilarity in walked a tall young man announcing himself, with an injured waiter in the background waving deprecating hands. It was Paul Lyons. "Come and laugh too, Mr. Lyons," said Grace, as she shook hands with him. "Should you be surprised to hear that Mr. Stevens (by the way, let me introduce you. Mr. Stevens, Mr. Lyons; the same to the same). Yes, Mr. Stevens is laughing at an excellent, undeniable joke made by me." Paul Lyons seemed older and more careworn than when she had last seen him. He looked at her with so grave an expression that she was startled. The laughter died away upon her lips, and she was silent. "You have been ill?" He spoke with very real feeling, and she, though she tried to answer him lightly, the effort was a failure. At length she said shortly-- "I have been ill, and your mother kind. My face speaks for itself, I suppose." "Yes," answered Paul, "you are looking far from well. But you are better? You are going away?" "Who told you this important fact?" "My mother. I came home sooner. I wanted to see you before you went away." Mr. Stevens had not very quick perceptions, but when Paul Lyons made this speech it dawned upon him that he was perhaps in the way. He rose, and, renewing his offers of service, left the room, with an overpowering amount of thanks from Grace. "Tell me about your illness, now that man has gone. Have you been seriously ill--as ill as my mother thinks?" "How can I possibly tell what your mother thinks?" "Oh, Grace! do not trifle just now! I have known for a very long time that my whole happiness is bound up in you!" "Margaret is free, remember." "What does that matter? Why remind me that I once liked her best? Is a man never to change? I know now--I have long known it--if I could but get you to believe it! that Margaret was a sort of dream of my youth. I shall always reverence her, but she is too far beyond me. She is like some pure cold saint, and I do love you, Grace!"