"Why did you leave your regiment?" I break in, irrelevantly, tired of being left out in the cold, and anxious to hear my own voice again, after the longest silence I have ever kept. Dora sighs gently and goes back to the tatting. Mr. Carrington turns quickly to me. "Because I am tired of the life; the ceaseless monotony was more than I could endure. So when my uncle died and I came in for the property, five years ago, I cut it, and took to foreign travelling instead." "I think if I were a man I would rather be a soldier than anything," I say, with effusion. "I cannot imagine any one disliking the life; it seems to me such a gay one, so good in every respect. And surely anything would be preferable to being an idler." I am unravelling a quantity of scarlet wool that has been cleverly tangled by Cheekie, my fox-terrier, and so between weariness and the fidgets--brought on by the execution of a task that is utterly foreign to my tastes--I feel and have pointed my last remark. Dora looks up in mild horror, and casts a deprecating glance at our visitor. Mr. Carrington laughs--a short, thoroughly amused laugh. "But I am not an idler," he says; "one may find something to do in life besides taking the Queen's money. Pray Miss Phyllis, do not add to my many vices one of which I am innocent. I cannot accuse myself of having wasted even five minutes since my return home. Do you believe me?" I hasten to apologize. "Oh, I did not mean it, indeed," I say earnestly; "I assure you I do not. Of course you have plenty to do. You must think me very rude." I am covered with confusion. Had he taken my words in an unfriendly spirit I might have rallied and rather enjoyed my triumph; but his laugh has upset me. I feel odiously, horribly young, both in manner and appearance. Unaccustomed to the society of men, I have not had opportunities of cultivating the well-bred _insouciance_ that distinguishes the woman of the world, and therefore betray hopelessly the shyness that is consuming me. He appears cruelly cognizant of the fact, and is evidently highly delighted with my embarrassment. "Thank you," he says; "I am glad you exonerate me. I felt sure you did not wish to crush me utterly. If you entertained a bad opinion of me, Miss Phyllis, it would hurt me more than I can say." A faint pause, during which I know his eyes are still fixed with open amusement upon my crimson countenance. I begin to hate him. "Have you seen the gardens?" asks Dora musically. "Perhaps to walk through them would give you pleasure, as they cannot fail to recall old days, and the remembrance of a past that has been happy is so sweet.'' Dora sighs, as though she were in the habit of remembering perpetual happy pasts. "I shall be glad to visit them again," answers Mr. Carrington, rising, as my sister lays down the ivory shuttle. He glances wistfully at me, but I have not yet recovered my equanimity, and rivet my gaze upon my wool relentlessly as he passes through the open window.