A pause followed, awkward in its duration.

“Did you—­not—­learn—­his—­name?” asked Dorothy, hesitatingly.

“Yes,” I replied.

Then came another pause, broken by the girl, who spoke in a quick, imperious tone touched with irritation:—­

“Well, what is it?”

“It is better that I do not tell you,” I answered.  “It was quite by accident that we met.  Neither of us knew the other.  Please do not ask me to tell you his name.”

“Oh, but you make me all the more eager to learn.  Mystery, you know, is intolerable to a woman, except in the unravelling.  Come, tell me!  Tell me!  Not, of course, that I really care a farthing to know—­but the mystery!  A mystery drives me wild.  Tell me, please do, Cousin Malcolm.”

She certainly was posing for the stranger’s benefit, and was doing all in her power, while coaxing me, to display her charms, graces, and pretty little ways.  Her attitude and conduct spoke as plainly as the spring bird’s song speaks to its mate.  Yet Dorothy’s manner did not seem bold.  Even to me it appeared modest, beautiful, and necessary.  She seemed to act under compulsion.  She would laugh, for the purpose, no doubt, of showing her dimples and her teeth, and would lean her head to one side pigeon-wise to display her eyes to the best advantage, and then would she shyly glance toward Sir John to see if he was watching her.  It was shameless, but it could not be helped by Dorothy nor any one else.  After a few moments of mute pleading by the girl, broken now and then by, “Please, please,” I said:—­

“If you give to me your promise that you will never speak of this matter to any person, I will tell you the gentleman’s name.  I would not for a great deal have your father know that I have held conversation with him even for a moment, though at the time I did not know who he was.”

“Oh, this is delightful!  He must be some famous, dashing highwayman.  I promise, of course I promise—­faithfully.”  She was glancing constantly toward Manners, and her face was bright with smiles and eager with anticipation.

“He is worse than a highwayman, I regret to say.  The gentleman toward whom you are so ardently glancing is—­Sir John Manners.”

A shock of pain passed over Dorothy’s face, followed by a hard, repellent expression that was almost ugly.

“Let us go to Aunt Dorothy,” she said, as she turned and walked across the room toward the door.

When we had closed the door of the tap-room behind us Dorothy said angrily:—­

“Tell me, cousin, how you, a Vernon, came to be in his company?”

“I told you that I met him quite by accident at the Royal Arms in Derby-town.  We became friends before either knew the other’s name.  After chance had disclosed our identities, he asked for a truce to our feud until the morrow; and he was so gentle and open in his conduct that I could not and would not refuse his proffered olive branch.  In truth, whatever faults may be attributable to Lord Rutland,—­and I am sure he deserves all the evil you have spoken of him,—­his son, Sir John, is a noble gentleman, else I have been reading the book of human nature all my life in vain.  Perhaps he is in no way to blame for his father’s conduct He may have had no part in it”