sumed itself, and he bowed before her with the reverence of a courtly
gentleman, undisturbed by the unexpectedness of his recognition of her
neighbourhood.

"Madam," he said, "pardon my unconsciousness that you were near me. You
would pass?" And he made way for her.

She curtseyed, asking his pardon with her dull, soft eyes.

"Sir," she answered, "I but retired here for a moment's rest from the
throng and gaiety, to which I am unaccustomed. But chiefly I sat in
retirement that I might watch--my sister."

"Your sister, madam?" he said, as if the questioning echo were almost
involuntary, and he bowed again in some apology.

"My Lady Dunstanwolde," she replied. "I take such pleasure in her
loveliness and in all that pertains to her, it is a happiness to me to
but look on."

Whatsoever the thing was in her loving mood which touched him and found
echo in his own, he was so far moved that he answered to her with
something less of ceremoniousness; remembering also, in truth, that she
was a lady he had heard of, and recalling her relationship and name.

"It is then Mistress Anne Wildairs I am honoured by having speech with,"
he said. "My Lady Dunstanwolde has spoken of you in my presence. I am
my lord's kinsman the Duke of Osmonde;" again bowing, and Anne curtseyed
low once more.

Despite his greatness, she felt a kindness and grace in him which was not
condescension, and which almost dispelled the timidity which, being part
of her nature, so unduly beset her at all times when she addressed or was
addressed by a stranger. John Oxon, bowing his bright curls, and seeming
ever to mock with his smiles, had caused her to be overcome with shy
awkwardness and blushes; but this man, who seemed as far above him in
person and rank and mind as a god is above a graceful painted puppet,
even appeared to give of his own noble strength to her poor weakness. He
bore himself towards her with a courtly respect such as no human being
had ever shown to her before. He besought her again to be seated in her
nook, and stood before her conversing with such delicate sympathy with
her mood as seemed to raise her to the pedestal on which stood less
humble women. All those who passed before them he knew and could speak
easily of. The high deeds of those who were statesmen, or men honoured
at Court or in the field, he was familiar with; and of those who were
beauties or notable gentlewomen he had always something courtly to say.

Her o