“Yes, Lady Verningham says I am a witch, and a snake, and all sorts of bad attractive things, and I want to go somewhere where I shall be able to show these qualities! England is dull--what do you think of Paris?” Oh! it did amuse me, launching forth these remarks. They would never come into my head for any one else! He walked across the room and back. His face was disturbed. “You shall not go to Paris--alone. How can you even suggest such a thing,” he said. I did not speak. He grew exasperated. “Your father’s people are all dead, you tell me, and you know nothing of your mother’s relations, but who was she? What was her name? Perhaps we could discover some kith and kin for you.” “My mother was called Miss Tonkins,” I said. “_Called_ Miss Tonkins?” “Yes.” “Then it was not her name--what do you mean?” I hated these questions. “I suppose it was her name. I never heard she had another.” “Tonkins,” he said, “Tonkins?” and he looked searchingly at me, with his monk of the Inquisition air. I can be so irritating not telling people things when I like, and it was quite a while before he elicited the facts from me, which Mrs. Carruthers had often hurled at my head in moments of anger, that poor mamma’s father had been Lord de Brandreth, and her mother Heaven knows who! “So you see”--I ended with--“I haven’t any relations, after all, have I?” He sat down upon the sofa. “Evangeline, there is nothing for it, you must marry me,” he said. I sat down opposite him. “Oh! you are funny!” I said. “You, a clever diplomat, to know so little of women. Who in the world would accept such an offer!” and I laughed, and laughed. “What am I to do with you!” he exclaimed, angrily. “Nothing!” I laughed still, and I looked at him with my “affair of the devil” look. He came over, and forcibly took my hand. “Yes, you are a witch,” he said. “A witch who casts spells, and destroys resolutions and judgements. I determined to forget you, and put you out of my life--you are most unsuitable to me, you know, but as soon as I see you I am filled with only one desire. I _must_ have you for myself--I want to kiss you--to touch you. I want to prevent any other man from looking at you--do you hear me, Evangeline?” “Yes, I hear,” I said. “But it does not have any effect on me. You would be awful as a husband. Oh! I know all about them!” and I looked up. “I saw several sorts at Tryland, and Lady Verningham has told me of the rest; and I know you would be no earthly good in that _rôle_!” He laughed, in spite of himself, but he still held my hand. “Describe their types to me, that I may see which I should be,” he said, with great seriousness. “There is the Mackintosh kind--humble and ‘titsy-pootsy,’ and a sort of under nurse,” I said. “That is not my size, I fear.” “Then there is the Montgomerie, selfish and bullying, and near about money----” “But I am not Scotch.”