"I shouldn't like to drive _her_ too hard," he thought, "if I had her as a witness on the other side. She's the sort of woman who could keep her self-possession, and make a man look foolish. I saw Valentine tackle such a woman once, and he got considerably the worst of it." "And then, after ruminating for some minutes upon an intricate point in the slate case, he took courage and addressed Lady Cecil. His Hibernian daring rarely abandoned him, even in that feminine society to which he was so unaccustomed; and yet there was a kind of restraint upon him to-night, and a strange schoolboy feeling took possession of him as he spoke to Cecil. "Do you like this sort of thing?" he asked. "Molyneux saved my life three years ago, or I shouldn't be here: but he can't have saved the lives of all these people; and yet, if he hasn't, I don't understand why they come here." "Dr. Molyneux is very popular," answered Cecil, smiling a little at the barrister's manner. "I think he almost saved my aunt's life in the spring; and if every body here has as much reason as I have to be grateful to him, they may very well endure a little crushing. Besides, one is crushed quite as much at other houses, where the parties are not so pleasant." Mr. O'Boyneville shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I suppose there are sane people who consider this sort of thing agreeable," said he; "it is one of the enigmas of social life. I am a working man, and the mysteries of fashion are a sealed book to me. But of course, if it is the fashion to be hustled upon a staircase, people will submit to be hustled on a staircase, just as the Chinese women pinch their feet, and savages flatten their skulls and elongate their ears. So Molyneux attended your aunt, did he? Is she with you to-night?" "Oh yes, she is here." Cecil glanced unconsciously towards the embrasure between the curtains where the dowager was seated as she said this; and Mr. O'Boyneville, accustomed to watch the glances of witnesses and jurymen, was quick to interpret her look. "The lady in black is your aunt," he said. "What's her name?" "MacClaverhouse," answered Cecil, looking with some wonder at this uncivilised stranger who questioned her so coolly. "I suppose he is an American," she thought; "and yet he doesn't talk like one." "And you are Miss MacClaverhouse, of course?" said the presumptuous O'Boyneville. He was determined to know who this young lady was--this aristocratic beauty with the fair classic face and listless manner. Another man would have left Cecil unmolested, and would have stolen away to extract the information he wanted from the master of the house; but the unsophisticated O'Boyneville had no idea of any such diplomacy. He had been asking questions all his life, and he questioned Cecil almost as he would have questioned one of his own witnesses, with a friendly unceremoniousness. "My name is Chudleigh," said the young lady, very coldly.