‘I had not the slightest idea you were in the room.’ ‘Of course not. How could a literary man, with a _Forget-me-not_ in his hand, be expected to know that a girl had come into the room?’ ‘Have you been at school all this time?’ I asked, for the sake of avoiding a silence. ‘All what time?’ ‘Say, since we parted in Switzerland.’ ‘Not quite. I have been staying with an aunt for nearly a year. Have you been at college all this time?’ ‘At school and college. When did you come home?’ ‘This is not my home, but I came here yesterday.’ ‘Don’t you find the country dull after London?’ ‘I haven’t had time yet.’ ‘Did they give you riding lessons at school?’ ‘No. But my aunt took care of my morals in that respect. A girl might as well not be able to dance as ride now-a-days.’ ‘Who rode with you in the park? Not the riding-master?’ With a slight flush on her face she retorted, ‘How many more questions are you going to ask me? I should like to know, that I may make up my mind how many of them to answer.’ ‘Suppose we say six.’ ‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘Now I shall answer your last question and count that the first. About nine o’clock, one--day--’ ‘Morning or evening?’ I asked. ‘Morning of course--I walked out of--the house--’ ‘Your aunt’s house?’ ‘Yes, of course, my aunt’s house. Do let me go on with my story. It was getting a little dark--’ ‘Getting dark at nine in the morning?’ ‘In the evening, I said.’ ‘I beg your pardon, I thought you said the morning.’ ‘No, no, the evening; and of course I was a little frightened, for I was not accustomed--’ ‘But you were never out alone at that hour,--in London?’ ‘Yes, I was quite alone. I had promised to meet--a friend at the corner of----You know that part, do you?’ ‘I beg your pardon. What part?’ ‘Oh--Mayfair. You know Mayfair, don’t you?’ ‘You were going to meet a gentleman at the corner of Mayfair--were you?’ I said, getting quite bewildered. She jumped up, clapping her hands as gracefully as merrily, and crying-- ‘I wasn’t going to meet any gentleman. There! Your six questions are answered. I won’t answer a single other you choose to ask, unless I please, which is not in the least likely.’ She made me a low half merry, half mocking courtesy and left the room. The same moment her father came in, following old Mr Coningham, who gave me a kindly welcome, and said his horse was at my service, but he hoped I would lunch with him first. I gratefully consented, and soon luncheon was announced. Miss Coningham, Clara’s aunt, was in the dining-room before us. A dry, antiquated woman, she greeted me with unexpected frankness. Lunch was half over before Clara entered--in a perfectly fitting habit, her hat on, and her skirt thrown over her arm. ‘Soho, Clara!’ cried her father; ‘you want to take us by surprise--coming out all at once a town-bred lady, eh?’ ‘Why, where ever did you get that riding-habit, Clara?’ said her aunt. ‘In my box, aunt,’ said Clara.