tters stood between Leo and Polly. When
Damer came, Polly was three times as _brusque_ with him as with any of
us; he himself seemed dreamy, and just as usual.

We went to dine at the Towers. We were rather late. Leo, in right of
his rank, took a dowager of position in to dinner. Our host led me
across the room, and introduced me to "Miss Chislett."

[Illustration: It was only a quiet dinner party, and Miss Chislett had
brought out her needlework.]

She was not the sort of person I expected. It just flashed across me
that I understood something of Polly's remark about Frances Chislett
making her feel "rough." My cousins were ladies in every sense of the
term, but Miss Chislett had a certain perfection of courteous grace
and dignified refinement, in every word, and gesture, and attitude, as
utterly natural to her as the vigorous tread of any barefooted peasant
girl, and which one does meet with (but by no means invariably) among
women of the highest class in England. Her dignity fell short of
haughtiness (which is not high breeding, and is very easy of
assumption); her grace and courtesy were the simple results of
constant and skilful consideration for other people, and of a
self-respect sufficient to dispense with self-consciousness. The
advantage of wealth was evident in the exquisite taste and general
effect of her costume. She was not beautiful, and yet I felt disposed
for an angry argument with my cousins on the subject of her looks. Her
head was nobly shaped, her figure was tall and beautiful, her grey
eyes haunted one. I never took any lady to dinner who gave me so
little trouble. When we had been together for two minutes, I felt as
if I had known her for years.

"Well, what do you think of her?" said Polly, when we met in the
drawing-room. Polly had been taken in by Mr. Clerke, and they had
neither of them paid much attention to what the other was saying.
Maria had said "yes" and "no" alternately to the observations of the
elderly and Honourable Mr. Edward Glynn; but as he was deaf this
mattered the less.

"Was I right?" said Polly.

"No," said I; "she's not a bit strong-minded." Polly laughed.

"I'll say one thing for her," said I; "I don't mind how often I take
her in to dinner. She doesn't expect you to make conversation."

"Why, my dear Regie," said Polly, "you've been talking the whole of
dinner-time!"

Leo had seated himself by the heiress. Poor Polly's eyes kept
wandering towards them, and (I s