ybody in Cumnor, not entirely from pride; it was said there was a
fair lady in the case.

Here Tressilian, the guest, who had sat apart, intervened in the
conversation, and was informed that Foster had a beautiful lady closely
mewed up at Cumnor Place, and would scarcely let her look upon the light
of day.

Michael Lambourne at once wagered that he would force Tony Foster to
introduce him to his fair guest, and Tressilian asked permission to
accompany him, to mark the skill end valour with which he should conduct
himself, and, in spite of the host's warnings, the next morning they set
off together to Anthony Foster's dwelling.

Michael Lambourne soon let Tressilian know that he suspected other
motives than simple curiosity had led him, a gentleman of birth and
breeding, into the company of such a scant-of-grace as himself, and
owned that he expected both pleasure and profit from his visit.

They found the gate open, and passed up an avenue overshadowed by old
trees, untrimmed for many years. Everything was in a dilapidated
condition. After some delay, they were introduced into a stone-paved
parlour, where they had to wait some time before the present master of
the mansion made his appearance. He looked to Tressilian for an
explanation of this visit, so true was Lambourne's observation that the
superior air of breeding and dignity shone through the disguise of an
inferior dress. But it was Michael who replied to him, with the easy
familiarity of an old friend, and though Foster at first made it obvious
that he had no wish to renew the acquaintance, in a few minutes he
requested him to follow him to another apartment, and the two worthies
left the room, leaving Tressilian alone.

His dark eyes followed them with a glance of contempt, some of which was
for himself for having stooped for a moment to be their familiar
companion. A slight noise interrupted his reverie. He looked round, and
in the beautiful and richly attired female who entered he recognised the
object of his search. His first impulse urged him to conceal his face in
the cloak, but the young lady (she was not above eighteen years old) ran
joyfully towards him, and, pulling him by the cloak, said playfully:

"Nay, my sweet friend, after I have waited for you so long, you come not
to my bower to play the masquer."

"Alas, Amy," said Tressilian, in a low and melancholy voice. Then, as
she turned pale as death, he added: "Amy, fear me not."

"Why should I