“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, turning red—­a dull deep red.  “I remember perfectly—­that is, I don’t remember you; I remember your father.  I’m sure I do not know how I could have forgotten you,” with a shy, admiring glance.

“Nor I either,” cried Colonel Ormonde, who sat opposite.  “Though Mrs. Liddell does not seem to remember me.”

“Why, I only saw you yesterday, and I am sure I bowed to you as I came in.”  So saying, Mrs. Liddell lifted her head with a sweet caressing smile to the eldest of the Burnett boys, who himself brought her some pigeon pie; and from that moment she devoted herself to her new acquaintance, utterly regardless of the hitherto tenderly cultivated Colonel.

Kirby, a newly arrived Indian magistrate, was not given to conversation, but he was assiduous in attending to his fair neighbor’s wants, and seemed to like listening to her lively remarks.

Colonel Ormonde glanced at them from time to time; he was amazed and indignant that Mrs. Liddell could attend to any one save himself.  He was rather unfortunately placed between Miss Burnett, whose attention was taken up by Sir Ralph Brereton, a marriageable baronet, who sat on her other side, and Lady Alice Mordaunt, a timid, colorless, but graceful girl, still in the school-room, who scarcely spoke at all, and if she did, always to her right-hand neighbor, a stately-looking man with grave dark eyes, which saved him from being plain, and a clear colorless brown complexion.  He said very little, but his voice, though rather cold, was pleasant and refined, conveying the impression that he was accustomed to be heard with attention.  He too was very attentive to Lady Alice, but in a kind, fatherly way, as if she were a helpless creature under his care.

“I believe we are quite an Indian party,” said Mrs. Burnett, looking down the table.  “Of course my children are Indian by inheritance; then there are Mr. Kirby and Mr. Errington”—­nodding to the dark man next Lady Alice—­“and Colonel Ormonde.”

“I am not Indian, you know; I was only quartered in India for a few years,” returned Ormonde, contradictiously.

“And I was only a visitor for one season’s tiger-shooting,” said Brereton.

“And I do not want to go,” cried Tom Burnett; “I want to be an attache.”

“Oh yes; you speak so many languages!” said his younger sister.

“I certainly do not consider myself an old Indian,” said the man addressed as Errington, “though I have visited it more than once.”

“You an Indian!” cried Ormonde.  “Why, you have just started as an English country gentleman.  We are to have Errington for a comrade on the bench and in the field down in Clayshire.  His father has bought Garston Hall—­quite close to Melford, Lady Alice.  But I suppose you know all about it.”

“Yes,” said Lady Alice, in a tone which might be affirmation or interrogation.  “There are such pretty walks in Garston Woods!”