g for her reply before he advanced into the room. Still
spell-bound by his voice, she recovered self-control enough to bow to
him and to resume her place on the sofa. It was impossible to leave
him now. After looking at her for a moment, he entered the room without
speaking to her again. She was beginning to perplex as well as to
interest him. "No common sorrow," he thought, "has set its mark on that
woman's face; no common heart beats in that woman's breast. Who can she
be?"

Mercy rallied her courage, and forced herself to speak to him.

"Lady Janet is in the library, I believe," she said, timidly. "Shall I
tell her you are here?"

"Don't disturb Lady Janet, and don't disturb yourself." With that answer
he approached the luncheon-table, delicately giving her time to feel
more at her ease. He took up what Horace had left of the bottle of
claret, and poured it into a glass. "My aunt's claret shall represent
my aunt for the present," he said, smiling, as he turned toward her once
more. "I have had a long walk, and I may venture to help myself in this
house without invitation. Is it useless to offer you anything?"

Mercy made the necessary reply. She was beginning already, after her
remarkable experience of him, to wonder at his easy manners and his
light way of talking.

He emptied his glass with the air of a man who thoroughly understood
and enjoyed good wine. "My aunt's claret is worthy of my aunt," he said,
with comic gravity, as he set down the glass. "Both are the genuine
products of Nature." He seated himself at the table and looked
critically at the different dishes left on it. One dish especially
attracted his attention. "What is this?" he went on. "A French pie! It
seems grossly unfair to taste French wine and to pass over French pie
without notice." He took up a knife and fork, and enjoyed the pie as
critically as he had enjoyed the wine. "Worthy of the Great Nation!" he
exclaimed, with enthusiasm. "_Vive la France!_"

Mercy listened and looked, in inexpressible astonishment. He was utterly
unlike the picture which her fancy had drawn of him in everyday life.
Take off his white cravat, and nobody would have discovered that this
famous preacher was a clergyman!

He helped himself to another plateful of the pie, and spoke more
directly to Mercy, alternately eating and talking as composedly and
pleasantly as if they had known each other for years.

"I came here by way of Kensington Gardens," he said. "For