As we left the table I turned towards Voltaire, and I found that he was
looking at us. If ever hate and cruelty were expressed in any human
face, they were expressed in his. Evidently he regarded me as his rival,
and thus his natural enemy. A little later in the afternoon he was again
talking with Kaffar, and instinctively I felt that I was the subject of
his conversation. But I did not trouble, for was not Gertrude Forrest
near me, and did we not have delightful conversation together? It seemed
as if we had known each other for years, and thus it was natural for us
to converse freely.

Just before dinner, Voltaire came to me, as if he wished to enter into
conversation. He commenced talking about Yorkshire, its customs,
legends, and superstitions, and then, with a tact and shrewdness which I
could not resist, he drew me into a talk about myself. I felt that he
was sifting me, felt that he was trying to read my very soul, and yet I
could not break myself from him.

One thing was in my favour. I knew his feelings towards me, felt sure
that he hated me, and thus I kept on my guard. Time after time, by some
subtle question, he sought to lead me to speak about the woman dear to
my heart, but in that he did not succeed. He fascinated me, and in a
degree mastered me, but did not succeed in all his desires. I knew he
was weighing me, testing me, and seeking to estimate my powers, but
being on my guard his success was limited.

When our conversation ceased I felt sure of one thing. It was to be a
fight to the death between me and this man, if I would obtain the woman
I loved. Perhaps some may think this conclusion to be built on a very
insufficient foundation, nevertheless I felt sure that such was the
case. When I was quite a lad, I remember an old Scotchwoman visited our