tion
concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in
this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But now I
am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may
hold some communion with you."

"Well," said I, "since you are come, you are welcome, please to step this
way."

Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace where Belle was
standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest
of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity,
then making her rather a graceful bow, "Lovely virgin," said he,
stretching out his hand, "allow me to salute your fingers".

"I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers," said Belle.

"I did not presume to request to shake hands with you," said the man in
black, "I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the
extremity of your two forefingers."

"I never permit anything of the kind," said Belle; "I do not approve of
such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or
behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be
private."

"Do you take me for a listener, then?" said the man in black.

"Ay, indeed I do," said Belle; "the young man may receive your excuses,
and put confidence in them if he please, but for my part I neither admit
them, nor believe them;" and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which
was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool.

"Come, Belle," said I, "I have bidden the gentleman welcome; I beseech
you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at
home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him
kindly."

"That's not English doctrine," said the man in black.

"I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality," said I.

"They do so," said the man in black; "they are proud of showing
hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it,
but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is
Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his
house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those
from whom he does, he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that,
because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal
to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in
want of assistance. Should a hunted fug