To this, however, his fair companion strongly objected. She was lonely, she wished to be diverted. His time was his own. Considering that he was partially engaged to two ladies, the Secretary felt this statement admitted of qualifications. Besides, they were at the entrance of the farmhouse where she was staying--it was a most ideal spot--he must step in and see it. But his reasons were of a more solid nature, and he laughingly confided to her that his wish to depart arose not from a desire to avoid her society, but from the fact that he had, as yet, had no breakfast. "But it is my own case," she cried with a ringing laugh. "I'm starving, actually starving--it is a most droll coincidence." Stanley assured her he would not detain her a moment longer, but this was equally repugnant to his hostess' views of hospitality. She declared that a breakfast for one was a breakfast for two; if not, more should be ordered. Her appetite was that of a bird; the repast was humble, but it was a sin to go without sampling the housewife's eggs and cream--there were none so good at the Hall, she was sure. The Secretary told her that he could not dream of staying, and found himself within five minutes ensconced at Madame Darcy's table. No liquids, other than fresh milk and pure spring water were served at this repast, yet Stanley arose fully assured that they were the most intoxicating beverages he had ever tasted, and betook himself Hall-wards towards noon, through a maze of black eyes, and dazzling flashes of beauty, his brain vibrating with a voice, whose tones were the poetry of sound. A vision of the Dowager Marchioness of Port Arthur, placidly seated on the lawn, under a green umbrella, with a book in her lap, and evidently on the borderland of sleeping and waking, brought him to earth once more. It would be better to interrupt her matutinal slumbers, and get one of his two dreaded interviews over. She looked rather too composed, he thought, for a disappointed mother, and he was sure she would be that, did she know the truth. He coughed discreetly, and approached, slowly enough to permit her Ladyship to quite recover her senses, before he arrived by her side. It would not do to appear too downcast before being informed of the hopelessness of his suit, so putting on his best society manner, and reflecting that an adversary disconcerted is an adversary at a disadvantage, he asked, as if it were quite the most ordinary of questions: "How beautiful are your feet--Lady Port Arthur?" "Dear me, young man!" exclaimed her Ladyship, now thoroughly awake, "they've always been considered beautiful; but why should you ask?" "My reference was scriptural, purely scriptural, I assure you-- I was referring to the feet of the messengers upon the mountains, who bring good tidings. You'll find it in Isaiah. Are you one of them?"