One thing was in my favour.  I knew his feelings towards me, felt sure that he hated me, and thus I kept on my guard.  Time after time, by some subtle question, he sought to lead me to speak about the woman dear to my heart, but in that he did not succeed.  He fascinated me, and in a degree mastered me, but did not succeed in all his desires.  I knew he was weighing me, testing me, and seeking to estimate my powers, but being on my guard his success was limited.

When our conversation ceased I felt sure of one thing.  It was to be a fight to the death between me and this man, if I would obtain the woman I loved.  Perhaps some may think this conclusion to be built on a very insufficient foundation, nevertheless I felt sure that such was the case.  When I was quite a lad, I remember an old Scotchwoman visited our house.  It is little I can recall to memory now concerning her, but I know that when she first set her eye upon me she said—­

“Eh, Mrs. Blake, but yon bairn has the gift o’ second sight.”

My mother laughed at the idea, whereupon the old woman began to correct herself.

“I’ll no say he has the gift o’ second sight properly,” she said, “but he’ll feel in a minute what it’ll tak soom fowk years to fin’ out.  Eh, lad”—­turning to me—­“if ye coom across some one as ye doesna like, hae as leetle to do wi’ ’em as ye can.”

I am inclined to think there is truth in this judgment of the old Scotch lady.  I have found her words true in many cases, and I was sure in the case of Voltaire my feelings told me what actually existed.

There was one thing in my favour.  Evidently he did not think I guessed his wishes; nevertheless I felt sure that if I was to obtain the mastery over such a man, it would be little short of a miracle.

Dinner passed over without anything worthy of note, but as soon as it was over we hurried to the drawing-room.  Even those who loved their after-dinner wine joined the ladies, as if in expectation of something wonderful.  The truth was, it had gone around that Mr. Voltaire was going to tell us a story concerning the mystic rites that are practised in Eastern lands, and the subject was an attractive one.  The ladies especially, evidently fascinated by the witchery of this man’s presence, anxiously waited for him to commence.

“What do you wish me to tell you about?” he said in answer to repeated requests for him to begin, from several young ladies.

“Oh, tell us a story of second sight, and spiritualism, and all that, you know,” replied a young lady with a doll’s face and simpering manner.

“You promised you would,” said another.

“True, I promised, but not to-day.  This Christmas Day is like Sunday to you English folk, and I do not wish to mar its sacredness.”

“Oh, the Sunday part of it is all ended at twelve o’clock,” cried the young lady who had spoken first.  “As soon as church is over we commence our fun.  Do, Mr. Voltaire; we shall be disappointed if you don’t.”