ad. "Gwyneth was a child, Percy," said my august hostess, "when
you went to Africa." I shook hands with my cousin with as much composure
as I could assume, for, to tell the truth, I was not only moved by my
recent adventures, but I had on the spot fallen hopelessly in love with
my new relative. It was le coup de foudre of a French writer on the
affections--M. Stendhal. Miss Birkenhead had won my heart from the first
moment of our meeting. Why should I attempt to describe a psychological
experience as rare as instantaneous conversion, or more so? Miss
Birkenhead was tall and dark, with a proud pale face, and eyes which
unmistakably indicated the possession of a fine sense of humour. Proud
pale people seldom look when they first meet a total stranger--still more
a long-lost cousin--as if they had some difficulty in refraining from
mirth. Miss Birkenhead's face was as fixed and almost as pure as marble,
but I read sympathy and amusement and kindness in her eyes.

Presently the door opened again, and an elderly man in the dress of a
priest came in. To him I was presented--

"Your old governor, Percy."

For a moment my unhappy middle-class association made me suppose that the
elderly ecclesiastic was my "old Guv'nor,"--my father, the late Duke. But
an instant's reflection proved to me that her Grace meant "tutor" by
governor. I am ashamed to say that I now entered into the spirit of the
scene, shook the holy man warmly by the hand, and quoted a convenient
passage from Horace.

He appeared to fall into the trap, and began to speak of old
recollections of my boyhood.

Stately liveried menials now, greatly to my surprise, brought in tea. I
was just declining tea (for I expected dinner in a few minutes), when a
voice (a sweet low voice) whispered--

"Take some!"

I took some, providentially, as it turned out. Again, I was declining
tea-cake, when I could have sworn I heard the same voice (so low that it
seemed like the admonition of a passing spirit) say--

"Take some!"

I took some, for I was exceedingly hungry; and then the conversation
lapsed, began again vaguely, and lapsed again.

We all know that wretched quarter of an hour, or half hour, which
unpunctual guests make us pass in famine and fatigue while they keep
dinner waiting. Upon my word, we waited till half-past eleven before
dinner was announced. But for the tea, I must have perished; for, like
the butler in Sir George Dasent's novel, "I lik