joy, strange to him, in pronouncing it).

"Maria Dolores?" said Lady Blanchemain, (and he experienced a secret joy
in hearing it). "Maria Dolores--what?"

"My detective didn't discover her Pagan name," said John.

"So that you are still in doubt whether she's the daughter of a miller?"
Lady Blanchemain raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, no: I think she's a miller's daughter safely enough," said he. "But
she's an elaborately chiselled and highly polished one. Her voice is
like ivory and white velvet; and to hear her speak English is a
revelation of the hidden beauties of that language."

"Hum!" said Lady Blanchemain, eyeing him. "So you've advanced to the
point of talking with her?"

"Well," answered John, weighing his words, "I don't know whether I can
quite say that. But accident threw us together for a minute or two this
afternoon, and we could scarcely do less, in civility, than exchange the
time of day."

"And are you in love with her?" asked Lady Blanchemain.

"I wonder," said he. "What do _you_ think? Is it possible for a man to
be in love with a woman he's seen only half a dozen times all told, and
spoken with never longer than a minute or two at a stretch?"

"_Was_ it only a minute or two--_really_?" asked Lady Blanchemain,