saw you--I saw you hit the ball most beautifully, and dearly
wished my brother had an equal ability. Brought up in the Court of
Portugal, he is barely English. There they have no manly sports. You saw
him pass you?'

'Him! Who?' asked Harry.

'My brother, on the lawn, this moment. Your sweet sister's friend. Your
uncle Melville's secretary.'

'What's his name?' said Harry, in blunt perplexity.

The Countess repeated his name, which in her pronunciation was
'Hawington,' adding, 'That was my brother. I am his sister. Have you
heard of the Countess de Saldar?'

'Countess!' muttered Harry. 'Dash it! here's a mistake.'

She continued, with elegant fan-like motion of her gloved fingers: 'They
say there is a likeness between us. The dear Queen of Portugal often
remarked it, and in her it was a compliment to me, for she thought my
brother a model! You I should have known from your extreme resemblance
to your lovely young sister.'

Coarse food, but then Harry was a youthful Englishman; and the Countess
dieted the vanity according to the nationality. With good wine to wash
it down, one can swallow anything. The Countess lent him her eyes for
that purpose; eyes that had a liquid glow under the dove--like drooping
lids. It was a principle of hers, pampering our poor sex with swinish
solids or the lightest ambrosia, never to let the accompanying cordial
be other than of the finest quality. She knew that clowns, even more
than aristocrats, are flattered by the inebriation of delicate celestial
liquors.

'Now,' she said, after Harry had gulped as much of the dose as she chose
to administer direct from the founts, 'you must accord me the favour
to tell me all about yourself, for I have heard much of you, Mr. Harry
Jocelyn, and you have excited my woman's interest. Of me you know
nothing.'

'Haven't I?' cried Harry, speaking to the pitch of his new warmth. 'My
uncle Melville goes on about you tremendously--makes his wife as jealous
as fire. How could I tell that was your brother?'

'Your uncle has deigned to allude to me?' said the Countess,
meditatively. 'But not of him--of you, Mr. Harry! What does he say?'

'Says you're so clever you ought to be a man.'

'Ah! generous!' exclaimed the Countess. 'The idea, I think, is novel to
him. Is it not?'

'Well, I believe, from what I hear, he didn't back you for much over in
Lisbon,' said veracious Harry.

'I fear he is deceived in me now. I fear I am but a woman--I am not to