“A double solitude--what the French call an _egoisme à deux_--is not so insupportable. In fact, it all depends upon 'the partner with whom we share our isolation.'” He threw a tone of half tenderness into the words that made them very significant, and Rebecca gave him one of her quick sudden glances with which she often read a secret motive. This time, however, she failed. There was nothing in that sallow but handsome face that revealed a clew to anything. “I 'll have to ask Mrs. Butler's leave before I present you,” said she, suddenly. “Of course, I 'll await her permission.” “The chances are she'll say no; indeed, it is all but certain she will.” “Then I must resign myself to patience and a cigar till you come out again,” said he, calmly. “Shall I say that there's any reason for your visit? Do you know any Butlers, or have you any relationship, real or pretended, with the family, that would make a pretext for coming to see her?” Had Miss Graham only glanced as keenly at Maitland's features now as she had a few moments back, she might have seen a faint, a very faint, flush cross his cheek, and then give way to a deep paleness. “No,” said he, coldly, “I cannot pretend the shadow of a claim to her acquaintance, and I can scarcely presume to ask you to present me as a friend of your own, except in the common acceptation given to the word.” “Oh, I'll do that readily enough. Bless your heart, if there was anything to be gained by it, I 'd call you my cousin, and address you as Norman all the time of the visit.” “If you but knew how the familiarity would flatter me, particularly were I to return it!” “And call _me_ Becky,--I hope! Well, you _are_ a cool hand!” “My friends are in the habit of amusing themselves with my diffidence and my timidity.” “They must be very ill off for a pastime, then. I used to think Mark Lyle bad enough, but his is a blushing bash-fulness compared to yours.” “You only see me in my struggle to overcome a natural defect. Miss Graham,--just as a coward assumes the bully to conceal his poltroonery; you regard in me the mock audacity that strives to shroud a most painful modesty.” She looked full at him for an instant, and then burst into a loud and joyful fit of laughter, in which he joined without the faintest show of displeasure. “Well, I believe you are good-tempered,” said she, frankly. “The best in the world; I am very seldom angry; I never bear malice.” “Have you any other good qualities?” asked she, with a slight mockery in her voice. “Yes,--many; I am trustful to the verge of credulity; I am generous to the limits of extravagance; I am unswerving in my friendships, and without the taint of a selfishness in all my nature.” “How nice that is, or how nice it must be!” “I could grow eloquent over my gifts, if it were not that my bashfulness might embarrass me.” “Have you any faults?” “I don't think so; at least I can't recall any.” “Nor failings?”