"Well," says Madam O'Connor, turning round as she sees him disappear, and addressing the three or four people round her generally, "'pon me conscience, that's the silliest young man I ever met in my life!" When disturbed, elated, or distressed, Madam O'Connor always says, "'Pon me conscience!" "Don't be hard upon him," says Mr. Kelly, kindly. "Though very mad, he is _quite_ harmless!" "He plays tennis very well," says Miss Fitzgerald, the tall girl. "So nice, isn't it? to have these ancient games reproduced!" This with the learned air of one who could say more if she would. "_Ancient?_" says Madam O'Connor. "Faith, I thought it was a game of yesterday." "Oh, dear, no!" says the erudite Bella, with a lenient smile. "Tennis was first brought from France to England in the reign of Charles the Second." "There now, Miss Beresford, don't forget that," says Madam O'Connor, turning to Monica with an amused smile: "it is essential you should remember it, as it is part of one's education." After which she moves away towards some other guests, having said all she has to say to those near her. "May I see you to your carriage, Miss Blake?" says Desmond, finding she and Miss Penelope are bent on going; and Aunt Priscilla, who has taken quite a fancy to this strange young man, gives her gracious permission that he shall accompany them to the fossilized chariot awaiting them. "Who is he, my dear Priscilla?" asks Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper, as they go. "Don't know, my dear, but a vastly agreeable young man, very superior to those of his own age of the present day. He is marvellously polite, and has, I think, quite a superior air." "Quite," says Penelope, "and a very sweet expression besides,--so open, so ingenuous. I wish _all_ were like him." This with a sigh, Terence having proved himself open to suspicion with regard to plain dealing during the past few days. Now, it so happens that at this instant they turn a corner leading from the shrubbery walk on to the gravel sweep before the hall door; as they turn this corner, so does some one else, only _he_ is coming from the gravel sweep to the walk, so that consequently he is face to face with the Misses Blake without any hope of retreat. The walk is narrow at the entrance to it, and as the newcomer essays to pass hurriedly by Miss Priscilla he finds himself fatally entangled with her, she having gone to the right as he went to the left, and afterwards having gone to the left as he went to the right, and so on. Finally a passage is cleared, and the stranger--who is an amazingly ugly old man, with a rather benign though choleric countenance--speeds past the Misses Blake like a flash of lightning, and with a haste creditable to his years, but suggestive rather of fear than elasticity. "My uncle?" says Brian Desmond, in an awestruck tone, to Monica, who literally goes down before the terrible annunciation, and trembles visibly.