“_Et moi_, twelve! Miladi engage me, so to say, _provisoirement_, to come to Ireland, but with a promise of travel abroad; that we live in Paris, Rome, Naples,--_que sais-je?_ I accept,--I arrive,--_et me voici!_” And mademoiselle threw back her veil, the better to direct attention to the ravages time and exile had made upon her charms. “Hard lines, ma'am,” said Peddar, whose sympathy must not be accused of an _equivoque_; “and here am I, that left the best single-handed situation in all England,--Sir Augustus Hawleigh's,--a young fellow just of age, and that never knew what money was, to come down here at a salary positively little better than a country curate's, and live the life of--of--what shall I say?--” “No, the leg, if you please, Mr. Peddar; no more wine. Well, just one glass, to drink a hearty farewell to the old house.” “I 'm sure I wish Mary joy of her residence there,” said Peddar, adjusting his cravat; “she is a devilish fine girl, and might do better, though.” “She has no ambitions,--no what you call them?--no aspirations for _le grand monde_; so perhaps she has reason to stay where she is.” “But with a young fellow of _ton_ and fashion, mam'selle,--a fellow who has seen life,--to guide and bring her out, trust me, there are excellent capabilities in that girl.” And as Mr. Peddar enunciated the sentiment, his hands ran carelessly through his hair, and performed a kind of impromptu toilet. “She do dress herself _bien mal_.” “Disgracefully so,” chimed in Mrs. Runt “I believe, whenever she bought a gown, her first thought was what it should turn into when she 'd done with it.” “I thought that la Henderson might have taught her something,” said Peddar, affectedly. “_Au contraire_,--she like to make the contrast more strong; she always seek to make say, '_Regardez_, mademoiselle, see what a _tournure_ is there!'” “Do you think her handsome, Mr. Peddar?” asked Mrs. Runt. “Handsome, yes; but not _my_ style,--not one of what _I_ call _my_ women; too much of this kind of thing, eh?” And he drew his head back, and threw into his features an expression of exaggerated scorn. “Just so. Downright impudent, I'd call it.” “Not even that,” said Mr. Peddar, pondering; “haughty, rather,--a kind of don't-think-to-come-it-on-me style of look, eh?” “Not at all amiable,--_point de cela,_” exclaimed mam'selle; “but still, I will say, _très bon genre_. You see at a glance that she has seen _la bonne société._”