We had not gone a hundred yards before we met Mr. Gurrage coming up the drive. He insisted upon turning back and walking with me. He said it was "beastly hard luck"--he has horrid phrases--his being out when I came, and would I please not to walk so fast, as we should so soon arrive at the cottage, and he wanted to talk to me. I simply pranced on after that. I do not know why people should want to talk to one when one does not want to talk to them. I was not agreeable, but he did all the speaking. He told me he belonged to the Yeomanry and they were "jolly fellows" and were going to give a ball soon at Tilchester--the county town nearest here--and that I must let his mother take me to it. It was to be a send-off to the detachment which had volunteered for South Africa. A ball! Oh! I should like to go to a ball. What could it feel like, I wonder, to have on a white tulle dress and to dance all the evening. Would grandmamma ever let me? Oh! it made my heart beat. But suddenly a cold dash came--I could not go with a person like Mrs. Gurrage. I would rather stay at home than that. When we got to the gate I said good-bye and gave him two fingers, but he was not the least daunted, and, seizing all my hand, said: "Now, don't send me away; I want to come in and see your grandmother." There was nothing left for me to do, and he followed me into the house and into the drawing-room. Grandmamma was sitting as usual in her chair. She does not have to fluster in, buttoning her cuff, when people call. "Mr. Gurrage wishes to see you, grandmamma," I said, as I kissed her hand, and then I left them to take off my hat and I did not come down again until I heard the front door shut. "That is a terrible young man, Ambrosine," grandmamma said, when I did return to the drawing-room. "How could you encourage him to walk back with you?" "Indeed, grandmamma, I did not wish him to come; he did not even ask my leave; he just walked beside me." "Well, well," grandmamma said, and she raised my face in her hands. I was sitting on a low stool so as to get the last of the light for my embroidery. She pushed the hair back from my forehead--I wear it brushed up like Ambrosine Eustasie de Calincourt--and she looked and looked into my eyes. If possible there was something pained and wistful in her face. "My beautiful Ambrosine," she said, and that was all. I felt I was blushing all over my cheeks. "Beautiful Ambrosine." Then it must be true if grandmamma said it. I had often thought so--perhaps--myself, but I was not sure if other people might think so too. * * * * *