I gain the corridor, down one long side of which I must pass to get to my own room. Fancying, when half-way, that I hear a noise behind me, I stop to glance back and ascertain the cause; but no capped or frisetted head pushes itself out of any door to mark my doings. Some one of the indescribable noises belonging to the night had misled me. Reassured, I turn again--to find myself face to face with Mark Gore. He is three yards distant from me. His face wears a surprised and somewhat amused expression, that quickly changes to one deeper, as his eyes travel all over my pretty gown, my slippers, and my disordered hair. Naturally I am covered with confusion, and, having had time to feel ashamed of my behavior during the evening, feel how especially unfortunate is this encounter. "Do you often indulge in midnight rambles?" he asks, gayly, stopping in front of me. "No," I return, as unconcernedly as I well can, considering my perturbation; "but to-night Miss Beatoun and I found so much to say about our friends that we forgot the hour. Don't let me detain you, Sir Mark. Good-night." "Good-night," holding out his hand, into which I am constrained to put mine. As I make a movement to go on, he detains me for a moment to say, quietly, "I never saw you before with your hair down. You make one lose faith in coiffeurs. And why do you not oftener wear blue?" There is not the faintest shadow of disrespect in his tone; he speaks as though merely seeking information; and, though the flattery is openly apparent, it is not of a sort calculated to offend. Still, I feel irritated and impatient. "Fancy any one appearing perpetually robed in the same hue?" I say, snubbily; "like the 'woman in white', or the 'dark girl dressed in blue!'" "You remind me of Buchanan's words," goes on Sir Mark, not taking the slightest notice of my tone. "Do you remember them?" "'My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my shoe; My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew.'" "_My_ hair golden yellow!" exclaim I, ungraciously, "Who could call it so? It is distinctly brown. I cannot say you strike me as being particularly happy in the suitability of your quotations." All this time he has not let go my hand. He has either forgotten to do so, or else it pleases him to retain it; and, as we have moved several steps apart, and are at least half a yard asunder, our positions would suggest to a casual observer that Sir Mark is endeavoring to keep me. Raising my head suddenly at this juncture, I see Marmaduke coming slowly up the stairs. Our eyes meet; I blush scarlet, and, with my usual clear common sense, drag my hand in a marked and guilty manner out of my companion's. Once more I stammer, "Good-night," very awkwardly, and make & dart towards my own room, while Sir Mark, totally unaware of the real cause of my confusion, goes on his way, conceitedly convinced that the fascination of his manner has alone been sufficient to bring the color to my brow.