“There is no particular use in making one’s self cheap, is there?” he says, with a bitter little laugh.  “What is the use of going to a place where you are told that any one else will do as well?”

A pause.  I walk along in silent wonderment.  So he actually was happy again!  We have left the church-yard.  We are in the road, between the dusty quicks of the hedgerows.  The carriages bowl past us, whirling clouds of dust down our throats.  One is trotting by now, a victoria and pair of grays, and in it, leaning restfully back, and holding up her parasol, is the lady I noticed in church.  Musgrave knows her apparently.  At least, he takes off his hat.

“Who is she?” I say, with a slightly aroused interest.  “I was wondering in church.  I suppose she is delicate, as she sat down through the psalms.”

At the moment I address him, Mr. Musgrave is battling angrily with an angrier wasp, but no sooner has he heard my question than he ceases his warfare, and allows it to buzz within half an inch of his nose, as he turns his hazel eyes, full of astonished inquiry, upon me.

“You do not know?”

“Not I,” reply I lightly.  “How should I?  I know nobody in these parts.”

“That is Mrs. Huntley.”

“You do not say so!” reply I, ironically.  “I am sure I am very glad to hear it, but I am not very much wiser than I was before.”

“Is it possible,” he says, looking rather nettled at my tone, and lowering his voice a little, as if anxious to confine the question to me alone—­a needless precaution, as there is no one else within hearing—­ “that you have never heard of her?”

“Never!” reply I, in some surprise; “why should I?—­has she ever done any thing very remarkable?”

He laughs slightly, but disagreeably.

“Remarkable! well, no, I suppose not!”

The victoria is quite out of sight now—­quite out of sight the delicately poised head, the dove-colored parasol.

“You are joking, of course,” says Frank, presently, turning toward me, and still speaking in that needlessly lowered key.  “It is so long since I have seen you, that I have got out of the habit of remembering that you never speak seriously; but, of course, you have heard—­I mean Sir Roger has mentioned her to you!”

“He has not!” reply I, speaking sharply, and raising my voice a little.  “Neither has he mentioned any of the other neighbors to me!  He had not time.”  No rejoinder.  “Most likely,” continue I, speaking with quick heat, for something in his manner galls me, “he did not recollect her existence.”

“Most likely.”

He is looking down at the white dust which is defiling his patent-leather boots, and smiling slightly.

“How do you know—­what reason have you for thinking that he was aware that there was such a person?” I ask, with injudicious eagerness.

“I have no reason—­I think nothing,” he answers, coldly, with an air of ostentatious reserve.