’Would your rather be called a true English lady than a true English woman, Rose?’

‘Don’t think I would, my dear,’ she answered, pertly; ’but “gentleman” always means more than “man” to me.’

‘And what’s a gentleman, mademoiselle?’

‘Can’t tell you, Don Doloroso.  Something you are, sir,’ she added, surveying him.

Evan sucked the bitter and the sweet of her explanation.  His sister in her anxiety to put him on his guard, had not beguiled him to forget his real state.

His sister, the diplomatist and his lady, the refugee Count, with ladies’ maids, servants, and luggage, were now on the main-deck, and Master Alec, who was as good as a newspaper correspondent for private conversations, put an end to the colloquy of the young people.  They were all assembled in a circle when the vessel came to her moorings.  The diplomatist glutted with news, and thirsting for confirmations; the Count dumb, courteous, and quick-eyed; the honourable lady complacent in the consciousness of boxes well packed; the Countess breathing mellifluous long-drawn adieux that should provoke invitations.  Evan and Rose regarded each other.

The boat to convey them on shore was being lowered, and they were preparing to move forward.  Just then the vessel was boarded by a stranger.

’Is that one of the creatures of your Customs?  I did imagine we were safe from them,’ exclaimed the Countess.

The diplomatist laughingly requested her to save herself anxiety on that score, while under his wing.  But she had drawn attention to the intruder, who was seen addressing one of the midshipmen.  He was a man in a long brown coat and loose white neckcloth, spectacles on nose, which he wore considerably below the bridge and peered over, as if their main use were to sight his eye; a beaver hat, with broadish brim, on his head.  A man of no station, it was evident to the ladies at once, and they would have taken no further notice of him had he not been seen stepping toward them in the rear of the young midshipman.

The latter came to Evan, and said:  ’A fellow of the name of Goren wants you.  Says there’s something the matter at home.’

Evan advanced, and bowed stiffly.

Mr. Goren held out his hand.  ’You don’t remember me, young man?  I cut out your first suit for you when you were breeched, though!  Yes-ah!  Your poor father wouldn’t put his hand to it.  Goren!’

Embarrassed, and not quite alive to the chapter of facts this name should have opened to him, Evan bowed again.

‘Goren!’ continued the possessor of the name.  He had a cracked voice, that when he spoke a word of two syllables, commenced with a lugubrious crow, and ended in what one might have taken for a curious question.

’It is a bad business brings me, young man.  I ’m not the best messenger for such tidings.  It’s a black suit, young man!  It’s your father!’