Guy took Miss Bellasys in to dinner, and I found myself placed on her other side.  I had been introduced to her ten minutes before, but had little opportunity for “improving the occasion,” as the Nonconformists have it, for she never once deigned a look in my direction.

My right-hand neighbor was an elderly man of a full habit, whom it would have been cruel to disturb till the rage of hunger was appeased, so I was fain to seek amusement in the conversation going on on my left.  There was no indiscretion in this, for I knew Guy would never touch secrets of state in mixed company.

For some time they talked nothing but commonplaces, evidently feeling each other’s foils.  The real fencing began with a question from Flora—­if he was not surprised at seeing her there that evening.

“Not at all,” was the reply; “I knew we must meet before long.  It is only parallels that don’t; and there is very little of the right line about either you or me.”

“Speak for yourself,” Miss Bellasys said; “I consider that a very rude observation.”

“Pardon me,” retorted Guy; “I seldom say rude things—­never intentionally.  I don’t know which is in worst taste, that, or paying point-blank compliments.  Without being mathematical, you may have heard that the line of beauty is a curve.”

Flora laughed.

“It is difficult to catch you.  What have you been doing since we parted?”

“That is just the question that was on my lips, so nearly uttered that I consider I spoke first.  Now, will you confess, or must I cross-question some one else?  I will know.  It is easy to follow you, like an invading army, by the trail of devastation.”

“So you do care to know?” the soft voice said, that could make the nerves of even an indifferent hearer thrill and quiver strangely.

After once listening to it, it was very easy to believe the weird stories of Norse sorceresses, and German wood-spirits and pixies, luring men to death with their fatally musical tones.

“Simple curiosity,” Guy replied, coolly, “and a little compassion for your victims.  They might be friends of mine, you know.”

Miss Bellasys bit her lip, half provoked, half amused, apparently, as she answered, “The dead tell no tales.”

“No, but the wounded do, and they cry out pretty loudly sometimes.  I suppose all the cases did not terminate fatally.  Will you confess?”

“I have nothing to tell you,” Flora said, very demurely and meekly, only for once her eyes betrayed her.  “Mamma took me down into Devonshire, where we have an aunt or two, for sea-breezes and seclusion.  I rather liked at first having nothing on earth to do, and nothing—­yes, I understand—­really nothing to think about.  I used to sleep a great deal, and then drive a little obstinate pony, to see views.  But I don’t care much about views—­do you?  Then mamma was always wanting me to help her look for shells and wild-flowers; and the rocks hurt my feet, and the bushes never would leave me alone in the woods.”  She shuddered slightly here.