"Not quite," reply I, with a short smile, stretching my hands to the blaze. "But do not you dine generally?" "Never when I can possibly help it," I reply, with emphasis. And no sooner are the words out of my mouth than I see that I have already transgressed my mother's commands, and given vent to one of "my unlucky things." I stand silent and ashamed, reflecting that no after-tinkering will mend my unfortunate speech. "And to-night you could not help it?" he asks, after a slight, hardly perceptible pause. I look up to answer him. He is forty-seven years old. He is a general, and a sir, and has been in every known land; has killed big and little beasts, and known big and little people, and I am nineteen and nobody, and have rarely been beyond our own park and parish, and my acquaintance is confined to half a dozen turnipy squires and their wives; and yet he is looking snubbed, and it is I that have snubbed him. Well, I cannot help it. Truth is truth; and so I answer, in a low voice: "No, father said I was to." "And you look upon it as a great penance?" he says, still with that half-disappointed accent. "To be sure I do," reply I, briskly. "So does Barbara. Ask her if she does not. So would you, if you were I." "And why?" "Hush!" say I, hearing a certain heavy, well-known, slow footfall. "He is coming! I will tell you by-and-by--when we are by ourselves." After all, how convenient an elderly man is! I could not have said that to any of the young squires! His blue eyes are smiling in the fire-light, as, leaning one strong shoulder against the mantel-piece, he turns to face me more fully. "And when are we likely to be by ourselves?" "Oh, I do not know," reply I, indifferently. "Any time." And then father enters, and I am dumb. Presently, dinner is announced, and we walk in; I on father's arm. He addresses me several times with great _bonhomie_ and I respond with nervous monosyllables. Father is always suavity itself to us, when we have guests; but, when one is not in the habit of being treated with affability, it is difficult to enter into the spirit of the joke. Several times I catch our guest's frank eyes, watching me with inquiring wonder, as I respond with brief and low-voiced hurry to some of my parent's friendly and fatherly queries as to the disposition of my day. And I sit tongue-tied and hungry--for, thank God, I have always had a large appetite--dumb as the butler and footman--dumb as the racing-cups on the sideboard--dumber than Vick, who, being a privileged person, is standing--very tall--on her hind-legs, and pawing Sir Roger's coat-sleeve, with a small, impatient whine. "Why, Nancy, child!" says father, helping himself to sweetbread, and smiling, "what made you in such a hurry to get away this morning out of the park?" (Why can't he always speak in that voice? always smile?--even his nose looks a different shape.)