“The one who went to South Australia,” Isabel went on, with an affectation of coy shyness.  “We used to see a great deal of him—­at least he used to call—­before he went away; and though there really was nothing serious between us, of course—­But one doesn’t like to speak of these things, even to one’s bosom friend.  But he’s down-stairs just now.  I just had time to run up, and he actually almost saw me on the stairs!  Yes, this one will do:  you always have such good-shaped collars, and yet you have always lived in the country!  I must be quick and hurry down:  men do so hate to be kept waiting, don’t they?  You’ll come down presently, won’t you, Ida?  I’m sure you’ll like him:  he’s so steady:  and it’s a very good business.  Of course, as I said, nothing definite has passed between us, but—­”

She giggled and simpered significantly; and Ida, trying to force herself to take some interest, fastened the collar for Isabel, and gently and with much tact persuaded that inartistic young lady to discard a huge crimson bow which she had stuck on her dress with disastrous results.  When, some little time after, Ida went down to the drawing-room, she found that the visitor was like most of those who came to Laburnum Villa, very worthy people, no doubt, but uninteresting and commonplace.  This Mr. George Powler was a heavy thick-set man, approaching middle age, with the air of a prosperous merchant, and with a somewhat shy and awkward manner; it seemed to Ida that he looked rather bored as he sat on one of the stiff, uncomfortable chairs, with the mother and daughter “engaging him in conversation,” as they would have called it.  His shyness and awkwardness were intensified by the entrance of the tall, graceful girl in her black dress, and he rose to receive the introduction with a startled kind of nervousness, which was reasonable enough; for the young women with whom he associated were not dowered with Ida’s very palpable grace and refinement.

Ida bowed to him, made some remark about the weather, and went over with a book to the sofa with the broken spring—­and promptly forgot his existence.  But her indifference was not reciprocated; the man was painfully aware of her presence, and after endeavouring to carry on the conversation with Isabel, grew absent-minded and incoherent, and presently, as if he could not help himself, got up and, edging to the sofa nervously, sat down and tried to talk.

Ida closed her book, and, as in duty bound, was civil to him, though not perhaps so civil as she would have been to a man of her own age and class; but Mr. George Powler, no doubt encouraged by her gentleness, serenity, and perfect self-possession—­qualities none too common in the class to which he belonged—­grew less nervous, and, to his own amazement, found himself talking presently quite fluently to this distinguished-looking young lady whose entrance of the drawing-room had struck him with awe.  With instinctive courteousness and kindness, Ida had asked him some question about South Australia, and he was led to talk of his life there, and to describe the country.