I allowed myself to wake without a start. “Was the ’47 port as good as you hoped?” I asked, sympathetically. He sat down. I had arranged my chair so that there was none other in its immediate neighbourhood. Thus he was some way off, and could realize my whole silhouette. “The ’47 port--oh yes!--but I am not going to talk of port. I want you to tell me a lot more about yourself, and your plans.” “I have no plans--except to see the world.” He picked up a book, and put it down again; he was not perfectly calm. “I don’t think I shall let you. I am more than ever convinced you ought to have some one to take care of you; you are not of the type that makes it altogether safe to roam about alone.” “Oh! as for my type,” I said, languidly, “I know all about that. Mrs. Carruthers said no one with this combination of colour could be good, so I am not going to try. It will be quite simple.” He rose quickly from his chair, and stood in front of the great log fire, such a comical expression on his face. “You are the quaintest child I have ever met,” he said. “I am not a child--and I mean to know everything I can.” He went over towards the sofa again, and arranged the cushions--great, splendid, fat pillows of old Italian brocade, stiff with gold and silver. “Come!” he pleaded, “sit here beside me, and let us talk; you are miles away there, and I want to--make you see reason.” I rose at once, and came slowly to where he pointed. I settled myself deliberately, there was one cushion of purple and silver right under the light, and there I rested my head. “Now talk!” I said, and half closed my eyes. Oh! I was enjoying myself! The first time I have ever been alone with a real man! They--the old ambassadors, and politicians, and generals, used always to tell me I should grow into an attractive woman--now I meant to try what I could do. Mr. Carruthers remained silent--but he sat down beside me, and looked, and looked right into my eyes. “Now talk then,” I said again. “Do you know, you are a very disturbing person,” he said at last, by way of a beginning. “What is that?” I asked. “It is a woman who confuses one’s thought when one looks at her. I do not now seem to have anything to say--or too much.” “You called me a child.” “I should have called you an enigma.” I assured him I was not the least complex, and that I only wanted everything simple, and to be left in peace, without having to get married, or worry to obey people. We had a nice talk. “You won’t leave here on Saturday,” he said, presently, apropos of nothing. “I do not think I shall go myself, to-morrow. I want you to show me all over the gardens, and your favourite haunts.” “To-morrow I shall be busy packing,” I said, gravely, “and I do not think I want to show you the gardens--there are some corners I rather loved--I believe it will hurt a little to say good-bye.”