Mademoiselle de Barras was of a noble though ruined French family, and a certain nameless elegance and dignity attested, spite of her fallen condition, the purity of her descent.  She was accomplished—­possessed of that fine perception and sensitiveness, and that ready power of self-adaptation to the peculiarities and moods of others, which we term tact—­and was, moreover, gifted with a certain natural grace, and manners the most winning imaginable.  In short, she was a fascinating companion; and when the melancholy circumstances of her own situation, and the sad history of her once rich and noble family, were taken into account, with her striking attractions of person and air, the combination of all these associations and impressions rendered her one of the most interesting persons that could well be imagined.  The circumstances of Mademoiselle de Barras’s history and descent seemed to warrant, on Mrs. Marston’s part, a closer intimacy and confidence than usually subsists between parties mutually occupying such a relation.

Mrs. Marston had hardly established herself in this little apartment, when a light foot approached, a gentle tap was given at the door, and Mademoiselle de Barras entered.

“Ah, mademoiselle, so kind—­such pretty flowers.  Pray sit down,” said the lady, with a sweet and grateful smile, as she took from the tapered fingers of the foreigner the little bouquet, which she had been at the pains to gather.

Mademoiselle sat down, and gently took the lady’s hand and kissed it.  A small matter will overflow a heart charged with sorrow—­a chance word, a look, some little office of kindness—­and so it was with mademoiselle’s bouquet and gentle kiss.  Mrs. Marston’s heart was touched; her eyes filled with bright tears; she smiled gratefully upon her fair and humble companion, and as she smiled, her tears overflowed, and she wept in silence for some minutes.

“My poor mademoiselle,” she said, at last, “you are so very, very kind.”

Mademoiselle said nothing; she lowered her eyes, and pressed the poor lady’s hand.

Apparently to interrupt an embarrassing silence, and to give a more cheerful tone to their little interview, the governess, in a gay tone, on a sudden said—­

“And so, madame, we are to have a visitor, Miss Rhoda tells me—­a baronet, is he not?”

“Yes, indeed, mademoiselle—­Sir Wynston Berkley, a gay London gentleman, and a cousin of Mr. Marston’s,” she replied.

“Ha—­a cousin!” exclaimed the young lady, with a little more surprise in her tone than seemed altogether called for—­“a cousin? oh, then, that is the reason of his visit.  Do, pray, madame, tell me all about him; I am so much afraid of strangers, and what you call men of the world.  Oh, dear Mrs. Marston, I am not worthy to be here, and he will see all that in a moment; indeed, indeed, I am afraid.  Pray tell me all about him.”