She was by no means young, as I then counted youth—­past thirty, I suppose—­and with an air that was very quiet, and friendly, and engaging.  She had never been a mere fashionable woman plainly; but she had the ease and polish of the best society, and seemed to take a kindly interest both in Milly and me; and Cousin Monica called her Mary, and sometimes Polly.  That was all I knew of her for the present.

So very pleasantly the time passed by till the dressing-bell rang, and we ran away to our room.

‘Did I say anything very bad?’ asked poor Milly, standing exactly before me, so soon as our door was shut.

‘Nothing, Milly; you are doing admirably.’

‘And I do look a great fool, don’t I?’ she demanded.

‘You look extremely pretty, Milly; and not a bit like a fool.’

’I watch everything.  I think I’ll learn it at last; but it comes a little troublesome at first; and they do talk different from what I used—­you were quite right there.’

When we returned to the drawing-room, we found the party already assembled, and chatting, evidently with spirit.

The village doctor, whose name I forget, a small man, grey, with shrewd grey eyes, sharp and mulberry nose, whose conflagration extended to his rugged cheeks, and touched his chin and forehead, was conversing, no doubt agreeably, with Mary, as Cousin Monica called her guest.

Over my shoulder, Milly whispered—­

‘Mr. Carysbroke.’

And Milly was quite right:  that gentleman chatting with Lady Knollys, his elbow resting on the chimney-piece, was, indeed, our acquaintance of the Windmill Wood.  He instantly recognised us, and met us with his pleased and intelligent smile.

’I was just trying to describe to Lady Knollys the charming scenery of the Windmill Wood, among which I was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance, Miss Ruthyn.  Even in this beautiful county I know of nothing prettier.’

Then he sketched it, as it were, with a few light but glowing words.

‘What a sweet scene!’ said Cousin Monica:  ’only think of her never bringing me through it.  She reserves it, I fancy, for her romantic adventures; and you, I know, are very benevolent, Ilbury, and all that kind of thing; but I am not quite certain that you would have walked along that narrow parapet, over a river, to visit a sick old woman, if you had not happened to see two very pretty demoiselles on the other side.’

’What an ill-natured speech!  I must either forfeit my character for disinterested benevolence, so justly admired, or disavow a motive that does such infinite credit to my taste,’ exclaimed Mr. Carysbroke.  ’I think a charitable person would have said that a philanthropist, in prosecuting his virtuous, but perilous vocation, was unexpectedly rewarded by a vision of angels.’

’And with these angels loitered away the time which ought to have been devoted to good Mother Hubbard, in her fit of lumbago, and returned without having set eyes on that afflicted Christian, to amaze his worthy sister with poetic babblings about wood-nymphs and such pagan impieties,’ rejoined Lady Knollys.