“No?” she said smilingly, and looking attentively at me with an expression which I did not understand.

And then she drew me on to speak of all his features, which I did with the utmost candor, showing great knowledge of the subject.

“And you,” she said, “you do not look at all as I supposed.  You are not nearly so young—­Richard told me you were quite a child.  I was not prepared for this grace; this young ladyhood—­’cette taille de palmier,’” she added, with a little sweep of the hand.

Somehow I was not pleased to feel that Richard had talked of me to her, though I liked it that he had talked of her to me.  No doubt she saw it, for I was lamentably transparent.  “Do you lead a quiet life, or have you many friends?” she said, as if she did not know exactly the kind of life I led, and as if she had not come for the express purpose of helping me out of it, at the instance of her kindly brother.  Then, of course, I told her all about my dull days, and she pitied me, and said lightly it must not be, and I must see more of the world, and she, for her part, must know me better, etc., etc.  And then she went away.

In a few days, I went with Ann Coddle, in a carriage, to return the visit.  The house was small, but in a beautiful, bright street, and the one window near the door was full of ferns and ivies.  I did not get in, which was a disappointment to me, particularly as I had no printed card, and realized keenly all the ignominy of leaving one in writing.  This was in April, and I saw no more of my new friend.  Richard was away, on some business of the firm, and the days were very dull indeed.

In May he came back, and resumed the dinners, and the evenings in the parlor, though not quite with the frequency of the past winter,—­and I think there was the least shade of constraint in his manner.  It was on one of these May days that he came and took me to the Park.  It was a great occasion; I had never been so happy before in my life.  I was in great doubt about taking Ann Coddle; never having been out of the house without a person of that description in attendance before.  But Ann got a suspicion of my doubt and settled it, to go—­of course.  I think Richard was rather chagrined when she followed us out to get into the carriage; she was so dried-up and shrewish-looking, and wore such an Irish bonnet.  But she preserved a discreet silence, and looked steadfastly out of the carriage window, so we soon forgot that she was there, though she was directly opposite to us.  It was Saturday; the day was fresh and lovely, and there were crowds of people driving in the Park.  Once we left the carriage with Ann Coddle in it, and went to hear the music.  It was while we were sitting for a few moments under the vines to listen to it, and watch the gay groups of people around us, that a carriage passed within a dozen feet, and a lady leaned out and bowed with smiles.

“Why, see—­it is your sister!” I exclaimed, with the vivacity of a person of a very limited acquaintance.