quick cordiality with which Richard had inspired me. I could tell that
she was curious about me, and was watching me attentively, and though
she was so charming that I felt flattered by her interest, I was not
pleased when I remembered my interview with her.

"You are not at all like your brother," I said, glancing in her face
with frankness.

"No?" she said smilingly, and looking attentively at me with an
expression which I did not understand.

And then she drew me on to speak of all his features, which I did with
the utmost candor, showing great knowledge of the subject.

"And you," she said, "you do not look at all as I supposed. You are not
nearly so young--Richard told me you were quite a child. I was not
prepared for this grace; this young ladyhood--'cette taille de
palmier,'" she added, with a little sweep of the hand.

Somehow I was not pleased to feel that Richard had talked of me to her,
though I liked it that he had talked of her to me. No doubt she saw it,
for I was lamentably transparent. "Do you lead a quiet life, or have you
many friends?" she said, as if she did not know exactly the kind of
life I led, and as if she had not come for the express purpose of
helping me out of it, at the instance of her kindly brother. Then, of
course, I told her all about my dull days, and she pitied me, and said
lightly it must not be, and I must see more of the world, and she, for
her part, must know me better, etc., etc. And then she went away.

In a few days, I went with Ann Coddle, in a carriage, to return the