I was very young then, you know, and more childish even than my years; but this talk of Mary Quince's interested me, I must confess, considerably. I was painting all sort of portraits of this heroic soldier, while affecting, I am afraid, a hypocritical indifference to her narration, and I know I was very nervous and painstaking about my toilet that evening. When I went down to the drawing-room, Lady Knollys was there, talking volubly to my father as I entered--a woman not really old, but such as very young people fancy aged--energetic, bright, saucy, dressed handsomely in purple satin, with a good deal of lace, and a rich point--I know not how to call it--not a cap, a sort of head-dress--light and simple, but grand withal, over her greyish, silken hair. Rather tall, by no means stout, on the whole a good firm figure, with something kindly in her look. She got up, quite like a young person, and coming quickly to meet me with a smile-- 'My young cousin!' she cried, and kissed me on both cheeks. 'You know who I am? Your cousin Monica--Monica Knollys--and very glad, dear, to see you, though she has not set eyes on you since you were no longer than that paper-knife. Now come here to the lamp, for I must look at you. Who is she like? Let me see. Like your poor mother, I think, my dear; but you've the Aylmer nose--yes--not a bad nose either, and, come! very good eyes, upon my life--yes, certainly something of her poor mother--not a bit like you, Austin.' My father gave her a look as near a smile as I had seen there for a long time, shrewd, cynical, but kindly too, and said he-- 'So much the better, Monica, eh?' 'It was not for me to say--but you know, Austin, you always were an ugly creature. How shocked and indignant the little girl looks! You must not be vexed, you loyal little woman, with Cousin Monica for telling the truth. Papa was and will be ugly all his days. Come, Austin, dear, tell her--is not it so?' 'What! depose against myself! That's not English law, Monica.' 'Well, maybe not; but if the child won't believe her own eyes, how is she to believe me? She has long, pretty hands--you have--and very nice feet too. How old is she?' 'How old, child?' said my father to me, transferring the question. She recurred again to my eyes. 'That is the true grey--large, deep, soft--very peculiar. Yes, dear, very pretty--long lashes, and such bright tints! You'll be in the Book of Beauty, my dear, when you come out, and have all the poet people writing verses to the tip of your nose--and a very pretty little nose it is!' I must mention here how striking was the change in my father's spirit while talking and listening to his odd and voluble old Cousin Monica. Reflected from bygone associations, there had come a glimmer of something, not gaiety, indeed, but like an appreciation of gaiety. The gloom and inflexibility were gone, and there was an evident encouragement and enjoyment of the incessant sallies of his bustling visitor.