"I must plead you as my excuse," I answered, rising, hardly knowing whether to look grave or smile, so bewildered was I by her manners and conversation: her brusquerie, of which her beauty qualified the rudeness; her severity, tempered by a childishness which made all her moods but new points of view of her charms. I took my hat: she opened the door. "I hope, Mrs. Fraser," said I, "that you will not deny me the pleasure of meeting you again?" "I have not come to Cliffegate for society, Mr. Thorburn." "Nor I. But a single individual does not make society. Besides, would not my having met you twice under circumstances so uncommon justify my claiming a privilege to which no one else in this place could pretend?" "What privilege?" "The privilege of knowing you and meeting you. It was, at least, promised me in a dream. You will not set aside a promise so mysterious?" "Are you a fatalist? I am. If you are not, you will ridicule my _weakness_, as you will call it. But much may be forgiven to persons who lead such self-contained lives as I. So, if we are to become friends, our friendship is preordained, and my rebelling against it would be foolish." "If we are to be friends, I shall become a fatalist. A creed made tempting by such a reward is irresistible. I have your permission to call again?" "You are your own master." The reply was sufficient. I extended my hand; she gave me hers. I held it for a moment, and we separated. CHAPTER III. Martelli was in the library when I entered. He sat deep in an arm-chair, his legs crossed, his face hid behind a folio. "I have seen my apparition," said I cheerfully. "I guessed so by the time you were absent," he answered, looking at the clock. "I hope my resolute behaviour vindicates my courage, or at least excuses my former fears." "You have renewed the pretty ancient legend, and have changed your shape of marble into a breathing woman. It certainly shows some hardihood and much tact to have penetrated into her presence. She seems, by your account, to have taken the white veil of solitude, and is dead to all the world." "After an interview with a beautiful woman," I cried effusively, looking round upon the bookshelves, "how flat, stale, weary, and unprofitable appears everything else! The dead are all very well in their way--_nil nisi bonum_--but there is something in the large black eye of a woman--a divinity, a power, an inspiration--that makes poetry, philosophy and the fine arts very second-rate, somehow." "No, Sir; the rate is not changed; it is a only temporary eclipse--a shadow dimming a light." "Well," said I, "for my part, I adore black eyes; I refer particularly to Mrs. Fraser's. If I were called upon to name the most harmonious contrast in the world, I should say black eyes and yellow hair. Oh! she is the loveliest, the most fascinating, the wildest, sweetest, strangest woman in the wide world!"