That afternoon I was sitting glum and glowering in my lodge, while the water for my tea was boiling on the fire, when I heard a light step in the passage; and the next moment she stood before me. I had the will and the opportunity now to regard her, here in secure possession of my own. She, not I, was the intruder. But my steady inquisition failed to abash her. She was too confident of her own charms, I suppose. “Pray forgive me, Mr Gaskett,” she said, with a twinkling civility. “I wanted to see the hermit with my own eyes.” “And not with Lady Skene’s or Mr Pugsley’s?” I asked. She laughed. “You bear a grudge long.” “I have so little else to bear out of the past,” I said. Her eyes became serious. “Well, I was a beast,” she said. “And now I’m a young lady.” “Excuse me. The distinction may be without a difference.” “And wasn’t I right then,” she cried, with a flush, “to question your gentle origin!” “I daresay,” I said. “But I owe you no consideration for the question. It was none of your business; and I haven’t forgiven you for it, and never shall.” She seemed to breathe a little quickly, as if distressed. Then she sat down in a chair, and crossed her legs, and bent forward to scrutinise me. “Richard,” she said, “what a brown strong man you have grown into; and rather taking-looking, too! I _was_ an odious little pig--there! but girls grow up, you know. I don’t remember my little past self with pleasure, I can tell you. Won’t you forgive me and be friends?” “What have you come home for? To be married?” “O! What a question!” “The sooner the better, for me.” She bit her underlip. I could have thought it was a swollen red enough little affair already. “Why for you?” she asked. “You can’t expect me to welcome your reappearance,” I said. “Can’t I?” she answered. “Well, looks ought to count for something with you by now. Don’t they?” “I mature slowly, Miss Christmas.” “Call me Ira.” “Certainly I sha’n’t. It would be presumption.” “I don’t know that it would. My father’s father was a chemist. I have found that out. He kept a shop and invented a pill and made a fortune over it. People would take it. It became a sort of infection. A royal princess caught it, and then it was all over with him. He bought a pedigree, in Wardour Street, and imposed it on the world. It would swallow anything from him.” “Well, my father’s father never invented anything that I know--not even a family. I date from yesterday; and, as to pills, the pillmaker’s granddaughter was the bitterest I ever had to swallow.” She was not offended, it seemed. “That’s right,” she said. “I told you to punish me. I have deserved it, I know. But tell me if I’m pretty.”