“If being clever means being able to say spiteful things, and having a temper like—like a fiend, she is certainly clever enough; and as for her looks, they are a matter of taste—not that it is for _me_ to talk about good looks.” “O, how humble we are, Doll! dust on our head and sackcloth on our back, and how our blue eyes flash!” “Be quiet, Ernest, or I shall get angry.” “O no, don’t do that; leave that to people with a temper ‘like—like a fiend,’ you know. There, there, don’t get cross, Dolly; let’s kiss and be friends.” “I won’t kiss you, and I won’t be friends, and you may walk by yourselves;” and before anybody could stop her she was gone. Ernest whistled softly, reflecting that Dorothy was not good at standing chaff. Then, after waiting awhile, he and Jeremy started to pay their call. But they were destined to be unfortunate. Eva, whom Ernest had never seen, and of whom he had heard nothing beyond that she was “good-looking”—for Jeremy, notwithstanding his expressed intention of consulting him, could not make up his mind to broach the subject—was in bed with a bad headache, and Florence had gone out to spend the afternoon with a friend. The old lady was at home, however, and received them both warmly, more especially her favourite Ernest, whom she kissed affectionately. “I am lucky,” she said, “in having two nieces, or I should never see anything of young gentlemen like you.” “I think,” said Ernest, audaciously, “that old ladies are much pleasanter to talk to than young ones.” “Indeed, Master Ernest! then why did you look so blank when I told you that my young ladies were not visible?” “Because I regretted,” replied that young gentleman, who was not often at a loss, “having lost an opportunity of confirming my views.” “I will put the question again when they are present to take their own part,” was the answer. When their call was over, Ernest and Jeremy separated, Jeremy to return home, and Ernest to go and see his old master, Mr. Halford, with whom he stopped to tea. It was past seven on one of the most beautiful evenings in July when he set out on his homeward path. There were two ways of reaching Dum’s Ness, either by the road that ran along the cliff, or by walking on the shingle of the beach. He chose the latter, and had reached the spot where Titheburgh Abbey frowned at its enemy, the advancing sea, when he suddenly became aware of a young lady wearing a shady hat and swinging a walking-stick, in whom he recognised Florence Ceswick. “How do you do, Ernest?” she said, coolly, but with a slight flush upon her olive skin, which betrayed that she was not quite so cool as she looked; “what are you dreaming about? I have seen you coming for the last two hundred yards, but you never saw me.” “I was dreaming of you, of course, Florence.” “O, indeed!” she answered dryly; “I thought perhaps that Eva had got over her headache—her headaches do go in the most wonderful way—and that you had seen her, and were dreaming of _her._”