“Annette, in such a way as that a good girl should not talk, even to her grandmother. I do not think it is respectable. I am too lenient with you, and you are too free with me.” “Grandmother, who is that? He is coming in here. I never saw the man before. How handsome! how genteel! how simply noble he looks! I must send Lucas to open the door.” In a minute or two the stranger let the knocker fall lightly in a rat-tat-tat, and the little negro boy who answered his summons put him into the chill best parlour, and brought his card to madame. She read the name on it with difficulty, and passing the card to Annette, drew her brows together in an effort of remembrance. “_Mr. Achille St. Ange._” “St. Ange! St. Ange! Ah, yes, I now recollect. Gertrude Bergen married a French gentleman called St. Ange. Gertrude and I were schoolgirls together. I was one of her bridesmaids. This young man must be her grandson. It seems incredible--impossible----” “But in the meantime, grandmother, this young man is waiting in the cold parlour.” “I had forgotten. Let Lucas bring him here. Do you hear, Lucas?” “Yes, madame.” In a few moments Mr. St. Ange entered, with the air and manner of a prince; bowing first to madame, and then, with a shade less deference, to Annette. His slight, agile figure had the erect carriage of one born to command; and his general appearance and aspect was suggestively haughty, and yet when people became familiar with him, they saw only a careless tolerance of all opinions, and a certain compatibility of temper, which easily passed for good nature. His hair was intensely black and soft, and lay in straight locks on his white brow; his eyes, equally dark, were full of a sombre fire; his skin had the pallor of the hot land from which he came. Madame rose to welcome him and remained standing until he was seated, then she smilingly resumed her chair, and said: “Indeed, Mr. St. Agne, for a moment I had forgotten. Backward for more than half a century I had to think--then I remembered your grandmother--Gertrude Bergen. Am I right?” “Madame is correct,” he answered; “my grandmother died ten years ago. My mother is also no longer with the son, who needs her so much. I have come to New York, and I have ventured to present a claim on your kindness three generations old.” His handsome face, his direct manner, the utter absence of anything subtle in his air or appearance, perhaps even the grave richness of his perfectly suitable attire prepossessed both women instantly in his favour. Madame took out wine and cake with her own hands; Annette was the cup-bearer, and he accepted the service with a grace far more flattering than any challenge or deprecation of it could have been. And as Annette handed him the glass, he incidentally--quite incidentally, indeed--lifted his eyes to hers, and the glance seemed to rivet her to the spot, to include not only her vision, but her very soul.