“Do you mind explaining?”

“I do.”

His eyes were set on mine. They seemed somehow to hold my gaze in fascination. There was in them an expression that was half ironical, half humorous.

“I believe this is the first time we have met,” he said, after a pause.

“I’m quite sure it is,” I answered. “You will forgive my saying so, but I don’t think any one who had once met you could very well forget it.”

He gave a great laugh.

“Perhaps you are right—ah! perhaps you are right,” he said laughing, wiping his moustache and mouth with his napkin. “Certainly I shall never forget you.”

I began, for the first time, to feel rather uncomfortable. He seemed to talk in enigmas. He was evidently what I believe is called “a character.”

“Do you know this part of the country well?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Yes—and no,” he answered slowly, thoughtfully.

This was getting tiresome. I began to think he was trying to make fun of me. I began to wish the waiter had not put him to sit at my table.

Presently he looked again across at me, and said quite suddenly—

“Look here, Mr Ashton, let us understand each other at once, shall we?”

His eyes looked into mine again, and I again felt quite uneasy. He knew my name. I felt distinctly annoyed at the waiter having told him my name without first asking my permission, as I concluded he must have done. It was a great liberty on his part, I considered—an impertinence, more especially as he had not mentioned this stranger’s name to me.

“I shall not be at the ball—and yet I shall be there,” the big man continued, as I did not speak. “Tell me, do you return to Houghton after going to London?”

“You seem to know a good deal about me, Mr —” I said, rather nettled, but hoping to draw his name from him.

He did not take the hint.

“Sir Charles is well, I hope? And Lady Thorold?” he went on. “And how is their charming daughter, Miss Vera? I have not seen her for 

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