The door opened into a conservatory, and I had just slipped in stealthily when I found myself face to face with a gentleman whom I knew on the instant was my guardian.  There was such an air of proprietorship about him, as he stood calmly surveying nature’s beautiful products in leaf and bud and blossom.  He glanced down at me—­possibly taking me at first for one of the maids—­then looking more keenly he bowed rather distantly.  I returned the salutation quite as coldly, and was making good my flight when his voice arrested my steps.  “Pardon me,” he said, in a finely modulated and very musical voice, “is this not Miss Selwyn?” I turned and bowing said, “My guardian, I think.”

“I am glad we were able to recognize each other.”  I looked into his face.  The smile was very winning that greeted me, otherwise I thought the face, though handsome, and unusually noble looking, was cold, and a trifle hard in expression.

“I am glad to welcome you to Oaklands, though late in being able to do so.  I hope you have not found it too dull?”

“Oh no, indeed—­there is so much to interest one here after city life, I am glad at each new day that comes.”

He looked surprised at my remark, and instantly I bethought myself of the character for fastidiousness which Hubert had given him, and resolved to be less impulsive in expressing my feelings.

“You must make society for yourself then in other than the human element.  I cannot think any one could rejoice, on waking in the morning, merely to renew intercourse with our Cavendish neighbors.”

I looked up eagerly—­“Then you don’t care for them, either?”

“Ah, I see it is not from your own species you draw satisfaction.”

“But you have not answered my question.”

There was a gleam of humor swept over the face I was already finding so hard to read.

“I am not well enough versed in Cavendish society to give a just opinion—­probably you have already drank more cups of tea with your friends than I have done in ten years.  Let me hear your verdict.”

“Our Deportment Professor assured us it was exceedingly bad form to discuss one’s acquaintance—­you will please excuse me.”

I was already getting afraid of my guardian.  But, from childhood, there was a spice of fearlessness in my composition that manifested itself even when I was most frightened.  Again I glanced into his face—­he was regarding me with a peculiar intentness, as if I were some new plant brought into the conservatory from an unknown region, and he was trying to classify me.  I could see no trace of warm, human interest in his gaze.

“That was a rather mutinous remark to bestow so soon upon your guardian,” he said, in the same even voice.

“I am very sorry,” I murmured, now thoroughly ashamed of myself.

“We will make a truce not again to discuss our acquaintances; but that interesting subject eliminated from conversation, there would be a dearth left with a goodly number of our species.”