"One more aborigine, you see!" says Mrs. Huntley, to my surprise--after the experience I have had of her fine taste in monosyllables--beginning the conversation. I look at her with a little wonder. Her voice is quite as low as ever, but there is an accent of playfulness in it; and on her face a sparkle of _esprit_, whose possible existence I had not conjectured. Certainly, she showed no symptom of playfulness or _esprit_ during our late talk. I have yet to learn that to some women, the presence of a man--not _the_ man, but _a_ man--any man--is what warm rain is to flowers athirst. I am still marveling at this metamorphosis, when the door again opens, and another guest is announced--an old man, as great a stranger to us as is the rest of the neighborhood, but of whom we quickly discover that he is deadly, deadly deaf. For five minutes, I bawl at him a series of remarks, each and all of which he misunderstands. He does it so invariably, that I come at length to the conclusion that he is doing it on purpose, and stop talking in a huff. Then Barbara takes her turn--Barbara can always make deaf people hear better than I do, though she does not speak to them nearly so loud, and I rest on my oars. Owing to my position between the two couples, I can hear what is passing between Algy and Mrs. Huntley. To tell the truth, I do not take much pains to avoid hearing it, for surely they can have no secrets. They are sitting rather close together, and speaking in a low key, but I am so used to _his_ voice, and her articulation is so distinct, that I do not miss a word. "I think I had the pleasure of seeing you in church, last Sunday," Algy says, rather diffidently; not having yet quite recovered from the humiliation engendered by his unfortunate remark. She nods. "And I you," with a gently reassuring smile. "Did you, really? did you see me--I mean us?" "Yes, I saw you," with a delicate inflection of voice, which somehow confines the application of the remark to him. "I made up my mind--one takes ideas into one's head, you know--I made up my mind that you were a _soldier_; one can mostly tell." He laughs the flattered, fluttered laugh, that _my_ rough speech was never known to provoke in living man. "Yes, I am; at least, I am going to be; I join this week." "Yes?" with a pretty air of attention and interest. "We--we--found out who _you_ were," he says, laughing again, with a little embarrassment, and edging his chair nearer hers; "we asked Musgrave!" "Mr. Musgrave!" (with a little tone of alert curiosity)--"oh! you know _him_?" "I know him! I should think so: he is quite a tame cat here." "Yes?"