Here the Duchess of Stalybridge paused; she had quite recovered that repose of manner and icy hauteur which, I understand, is the heritage of the house of Birkenhead.  For my part, I had almost lost the modest confidence which is, I believe, hereditary in the family of Cobson.  It was a scene to make the boldest stand aghast.  Here was an unknown lady of the highest rank confessing a dreadful crime to a total stranger, and recognizing in that stranger her son, and the heir to an enormous property and a title as old—­as old as British dukedoms, however old they may be.  Ouida would have said “heir to a title older than a thousand centuries,” but I doubt if the English duke is so ancient as that, or a direct descendant of the Dukes of Edom mentioned in Holy Writ.  I began pouring out an incoherent flood of evidence to show that I was only Thomas Cobson, and had never been any one else, but at that moment a gong sounded, and a young lady entered the room.  She also was dressed in mourning, and the Duchess introduced her to me as my cousin, Miss Birkenhead.  “Gwyneth was a child, Percy,” said my august hostess, “when you went to Africa.”  I shook hands with my cousin with as much composure as I could assume, for, to tell the truth, I was not only moved by my recent adventures, but I had on the spot fallen hopelessly in love with my new relative.  It was le coup de foudre of a French writer on the affections—­M.  Stendhal.  Miss Birkenhead had won my heart from the first moment of our meeting.  Why should I attempt to describe a psychological experience as rare as instantaneous conversion, or more so?  Miss Birkenhead was tall and dark, with a proud pale face, and eyes which unmistakably indicated the possession of a fine sense of humour.  Proud pale people seldom look when they first meet a total stranger—­still more a long-lost cousin—­as if they had some difficulty in refraining from mirth.  Miss Birkenhead’s face was as fixed and almost as pure as marble, but I read sympathy and amusement and kindness in her eyes.

Presently the door opened again, and an elderly man in the dress of a priest came in.  To him I was presented—­

“Your old governor, Percy.”

For a moment my unhappy middle-class association made me suppose that the elderly ecclesiastic was my “old Guv’nor,”—­my father, the late Duke.  But an instant’s reflection proved to me that her Grace meant “tutor” by governor.  I am ashamed to say that I now entered into the spirit of the scene, shook the holy man warmly by the hand, and quoted a convenient passage from Horace.

He appeared to fall into the trap, and began to speak of old recollections of my boyhood.

Stately liveried menials now, greatly to my surprise, brought in tea.  I was just declining tea (for I expected dinner in a few minutes), when a voice (a sweet low voice) whispered—­

“Take some!”

I took some, providentially, as it turned out.  Again, I was declining tea-cake, when I could have sworn I heard the same voice (so low that it seemed like the admonition of a passing spirit) say—­