She sate very silent and thoughtful after this; but when refreshments were served, and John Cotley came to do the honours of his table, she became once more all smiles and gaiety, prattling very prettily about the great world and the folk who dwelt there, and running on from one topic to another without appearing to notice her host’s gravity and silence. All at once, turning to him with a challenging air, she said: “In this solitary retreat of yours, Mr Cotley, I presume the news of my doings and successes have not reached you?” “Madam,” he returned, with an added shade of coldness in his tone, “I must own that I have failed to keep count of your triumphs.” “Why, that is the less surprising since, according to my flatterers, my triumphs are past reckoning. Do you remember, sir;” and here, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin upon her hands, she darted a penetrating glance towards him—“do you remember, sir, a conversation which we once had at early dawn? I, at least, recollect it very well. Though you were unaware at the time of the career I had chosen, you made several curiously apt forecasts.” “Madam,” returned John, “I regret to say that my memory is not as good as yours.” She bit her lip, but soon recovered herself. Tilting back her head slightly, and looking at him through her narrowed lids, she continued— “You prophesied, as I recollect, that I should be courted by the highest in the land; admired by all the rank and fashion of London. ‘Dukes;’ said you—and I vow you would have laughed had you but known the gloomy despair of your face—‘dukes and marquises will be fighting for the privilege of kissing your hand.’ Well, your words have come true; many grandees have come a-courting me; this hand of mine has been kissed by royalty. And yet, John Cotley, ’tis a weary life. Empty flattery, tiresome praise—a feather-headed crew that flutter round me with unmeaning smiles and foolish compliments. Not one true man among them.” As she paused, he bowed stiffly. “Amid all my success I am sick at heart,” she went on, excitedly. “I long for a home; I long to find a loyal heart, a hand that I could rely on.” “I regret to hear, madam,” said Cotley, as she paused again, “that events have not justified your expectations.” She looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then smiling archly, went on— “And you tell me you have forgotten this conversation of ours? Now, I can recall it word for word. When I first emerged from under the leafy archway yonder”—with a wave of the hand—“you were standing thus”— She rose to her feet and struck an attitude, head bent, one hand pressed to her brow, the other clutching at the ruffles at her breast. “And I was so rude as to laugh; do you remember?” “You have the advantage of me, madam,” said John Cotley, sternly.