It was with some surprise that in glancing round she saw that Ralph also had entered. Something in his manner had pleased her, and she presently turned to the manager with a question. “Who is that young fellow behind us?” she inquired, lowering her voice. “He is a pupil of Macneillie’s,” said the manager, “and at present is only ‘walking gentleman,’ but he has the makings of a good actor in him.” “Introduce him to me,” said Miss Greville. So Ralph, to his no small delight, was presented to the great lady, who gave him a cordial hand-shake. “They tell me you are Hugh Macneillie’s pupil,” she said. Ralph flushed a little. “He has taught me more than any one else,” he replied, “and it was through him that I got this engagement. In August I am to join his company.” “Ah!” she said, and Ralph fancied there was a sort of envy in her tone. “You are very fortunate to have such a chance. He is one of a thousand. Where did you come across him?” “At Callander, soon after Whitsuntide. He has built a house there for his mother.” “She is still living? I am glad of that. She never liked me, having a rooted aversion to the stage and all connected with it, still she was kind to me in her way, though disapproving all the time.” “She still disapproves of the stage,” said Ralph. “But she is kindness itself; if you could but have seen the plight I was in when Macneillie found me, and took me home with him!” At that moment they were interrupted, but when the rehearsal was over, Miss Greville again spoke to him. “We must finish our talk,” she said. “I like to hear all about my old friends. To-morrow I am driving with my little invalid nephew to Roslin--come and join us, we shall have plenty of room for you.” Ralph was delighted with the invitation; it was quite impossible to remain a stern judge of Miss Greville now that he had seen her and spoken with her. He had wondered how it could be that Macneillie, after her faithlessness, still for her sake remained single. But he wondered no longer, for it seemed to him, that quite apart from any beauty of feature or form, she was the most inexplicably fascinating woman he had ever met. Her every movement seemed to possess a subtle charm; there was a refinement and delicacy about her manner, a delicious originality about her way of talking, that made all others in comparison with her seem tame and commonplace. There was, moreover, something that specially appealed to Ralph, in the sadness of her face when in repose, and its brilliant beauty when animated. There was no rehearsal the next day, and Ralph, punctual to the minute, presented himself at the Windsor Hotel, at the time appointed for the drive. He was shown into a private sitting-room where a little lame boy of about nine years old sat by the open window. “Aunt Christine will be here directly,” he said, greeting the visitor with great friendliness. “She was reading to me and forgot the time. Did you ever hear her read?”