“You have come,” I said, grimly, as he settled his shirt-collar to speak to me, after formally depositing his hat and cane, and a roll of paper he drew from his pocket, on the centre-table, and wiping his face carefully with his cambric, musk-scented handkerchief, unspeakably odious and unclean to my olfactories—­“you have come at last; yet the greatest wonder to me is, how you dare appear at all before me,” and I looked upon him right lionly, I believe.

“You were always inclined to assume the offensive with me, Miriam.  Yet I confess you have a little shadow of reason this time, or seem to have, and I am here to-day for purposes of explanation or compromise” (bowing gracefully), and he rubbed his palms together very gently and complacently, looking around as he did so for a chair, which perceiving, and drawing to the table so as to face me where I sat on the sofa, he deposited himself upon, assuming at once his usual graceful pose.

It was fauteuil, and he threw one arm over that of the chair, suffering his well-preserved white hand—­always suggestive of poultices to me—­with its signet ring, to droop in front of it—­a hand which he moved up and down habitually, as he conversed, in a singularly soothing and mechanical fashion—­his “pendulum” we used to call it in old times, Evelyn and I, when it was one of our chief resources for amusement to laugh at “Cagliostro,” our sobriquet for this ci-devant jeune homme, it may be remembered.

“Let me premise, Miriam,” he began, “by congratulating you on your improved appearance”—­another benign bow.  “You were so burned and blackened by exposure, and so—­in short, so very wild-looking when I last saw you, that I began to fear for the result; but perfect rest and retirement, and good nursing, have effected wonders.  I have never seen you so fair, so refined-looking, and yet so calm, as you are now (calmness, my child, is aristocratic—­cultivate it!); even if a little thin and delicate from confinement, yet perfectly healthy, I cannot doubt, from what I see.  Do assure me of your health, my dear girl.  You are as dumb to-day as Grey’s celebrated prophetess.”

“All personal remarks as coming from you are offensive to me, Mr. Bainrothe,” I rejoined; “proceed to your business at once, whatever that may be—­a truce to preamble and compliments.”

“You shall be obeyed,” he remarked, bowing low and derisively.  “Yet, believe me, nothing but my care for your fair fame and my own have led me to confine you in such narrow limits for a season which, I trust, is almost over.  As to my persecutions, which, I am told, you allege as a reason for leaving your house and friends so precipitately, these are out of the question henceforth forever, I assure you”—­with a wave of the velvet hand—­“since I am privately married to a lady of rank and fortune, who will soon be openly proclaimed ‘my wife,’ and who will be found, on close acquaintance, worthy of your friendship.”