“_Table d’hôte,_” said the gentleman. “O, pardon;” and with a little bow and most fascinating smile to Ernest, she took the gentleman’s extended arm and sailed away. “Why did you pretend not to understand me?” Ernest heard him ask, and saw her shrug her shoulders in reply. The other gentleman followed with his companion, and after him came Ernest. When he reached the _salle-à-manger_ he found that the only chair vacant at the table was one next to his friend of the _salon._ Indeed, had he thought of it, it might have struck him that madame had contrived to keep that chair vacant, for on his approach she gathered together the folds of her silk dress, which had almost hidden it, and welcomed him with a little nod. Ernest took the chair, and forthwith madame entered into a most lively conversation with him, a course of proceeding that appeared to be extremely distasteful to the gentleman on her right, who pished and pshawed and pushed away his plate in a manner that soon became quite noticeable. But madame talked serenely on, quite careless of his antics, till at last he whispered something to her that caused the blood to mount to her fair cheek. “Mais tais-toi, donc,” Ernest heard her answer, and next moment—the subsequent history of our hero demands that the truth should be told—it was his turn to colour, for, alas! there was no doubt about it, he distinctly felt madame’s little foot pressed upon his own. He took up his wine and drank a little to hide his confusion; but whether he had or had not the moral courage to withdraw from the situation, by placing his toes under the more chilly but safe guardianship of the chair-legs, history saith not; let us hope and presume that he had. But if this was so or not he did not get on very well with his dinner, for the situation was novel and not conducive to appetite. Presently Mr. Alston, who was sitting opposite, addressed him across the table. “Are you going to the dance here to-night, Mr. Kershaw?” To Ernest’s surprise, the gentleman on the other side of madame answered, with an astonished look: “Yes, I am going.” “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Alston, “I was speaking to the gentleman on your left.” “Oh, indeed! I thought you said Kershaw.” “Yes, I did; the gentleman’s name is Kershaw, I think.” “Yes,” put in Ernest, “my name is Kershaw.” “That is odd,” said the other gentleman, “so is mine. I did not know that there were any other Kershaws.” “Nor did I,” answered Ernest, “except Sir Hugh Kershaw;” and his face darkened as he pronounced the name. “I am Sir Hugh Kershaw’s son; my name is Hugh Kershaw,” was the reply. “Indeed! Then we are cousins, I suppose; for I am his nephew, the son of his brother Ernest.”