So my ignorance remains unenlightened, and as he calmly returns to his dinner, I do the same, and abandon all hopes of hearing him converse. Dora is doing the amiable to Sir George Ashurst. Anything so simple or innocent as Dora in her white dress and coral ribbons could hardly be conceived. I am admiring her myself with all my heart, and wondering how it is she does it; and I fancy Sir Mark Gore is doing the same. Once, as she raises the childish questioning blue eyes to her companion's face, and murmurs some pretty speech in her soft treble, I see Sir Mark smile openly. It is only a momentary merriment, however, as directly afterwards he turns to me, suave and charming as ever. "How becoming white is to your sister!" he says. "It suits her expression so wonderfully. I don't know how it is, but the word _ingenue_ always comes to me when I look at her." "She is very pretty," I return, coldly. I have not yet quite decided on the nature of that smile. "You do her an injustice. Surely she is more than 'pretty'--a word that means so little in these degenerate days. If I were an artist I should like to paint her as 'Moonlight,' with a bunch of lilies in her hands, and just that dress she is now wearing--_without_ the ribbons--and a little stream running at her feet. I have seldom seen so sweet an expression. One could hardly fancy an unkind word coming from those lips, or a hidden motive in her heart." I think of our "Moonlight's" designs upon Marmaduke and the man who is now so loud in her praise. I think of the many and energetic _fracas_ between her and Billy, and am silent. I don't know why, but I am positive Sir Mark is amused. I color and look up. "What ages ago it seems since last we met!" says he, promptly. "Ages? No, months. It was last June we met, I think--and here." "Oh, that was only the barest glimpse; one could hardly call it a meeting. I was referring to my visit to the Leslies two years ago. You remember that little scene in the High street, at Carston?" I laughed merrily. "'I do indeed. But for you the _finale_ would have been _too_ ignominious. I shall always owe you a debt of gratitude for your timely appearance. The saddle turned, I recollect, exactly opposite the Bank, and I had a horrid vision of two or three young men gazing at me in eager expectation from some of the windows." "Yes; and then we met again, and--- Shall I peel one of these for you?" "Please." "And I flattered myself you treated me with some degree of graciousness; flattered myself so far that I presumed to send you a little volume of poems I had heard you wish for and which--you returned. That was rather cruel, was it not?" "I have always _felt_ how rude you must have thought me on that occasion." I reply, blushing hotly. "I did so long to tell you all about it, but could not. It was not my fault, however; I confess I would have kept it if possible: it was papa. He said you should not have sent it, and insisted on its being returned."