I perceived that I had only seen ladies who were very much
like her. But I had seen them very far away from Grimwinter, and it was
an odd sensation to be seeing her here. Whither was it the sight of her
seemed to transport me? To some dusky landing before a shabby Parisian
_quatrieme_,--to an open door revealing a greasy antechamber, and to
Madame leaning over the banisters, while she holds a faded dressing-gown
together and bawls down to the portress to bring up her coffee. Miss
Spencer's visitor was a very large woman, of middle age, with a plump,
dead-white face, and hair drawn back _a la chinoise_. She had a small
penetrating eye, and what is called in French an agreeable smile.
She wore an old pink cashmere dressing-gown, covered with white
embroideries, and, like the figure in my momentary vision, she was
holding it together in front with a bare and rounded arm and a plump and
deeply dimpled hand.

"It is only to spick about my _cafe_," she said to Miss Spencer, with
her agreeable smile. "I should like it served in the garden under the
leetle tree."

The young man behind her had now stepped into the room, and he also
stood looking at me. He was a pretty-faced little fellow, with an air
of provincial foppishness,--a tiny Adonis of Grimwinter. He had a
small pointed nose, a small pointed chin, and, as I observed, the most
diminutive feet. He looked at me foolishly, with his mouth open.

"You shall have your coffee," said Miss Spencer, who had a faint red
spot in each of her cheeks.

"It is well!" said the lady in the dressing-gown. "Find your bouk," she
added, turning to the young man.

He gazed vaguely round the room. "My grammar, d 'ye mean?" he asked,
with a helpless intonation.

But the large lady was inspecting me, curiously, and gathering in her
dressing-gown with her white arm.

"Find your bouk, my friend," she repeated.

"My poetry, d 'ye mean?" said the young man, also staring at me again.

"Never mind your bouk," said his companion. "To-day we will talk. We
will make some conversation. But we must not interrupt. Come;" and she
turned away. "Under the leetle tree," she added, for the benefit of Miss
Spencer.

Then she gave me a sort of salutation, and a "Monsieur!" with which she
swept away again, followed by the young man.

Caroline Spencer stood there with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"The Countess, my cousin."

"And who is the young man?"

"Her pupil, Mr.