"Does Miss Searle know her history?" asked my friend, staring at the rounded whiteness of the lady's heavy cheek.
"Miss Searle knows nothing!" said our host, with zeal.
This utterance seemed to kindle in my friend a generous opposing zeal. "She shall know at least the tale of Mistress Margaret," he cried, and walked rapidly away in search of her.
Mr. Searle and I pursued our march through the lighted rooms. "You've found a cousin," I said, "with a vengeance."
"Ah, a vengeance?" said my host, stiffly.
"I mean that he takes as keen an interest in your annals and possessions as yourself."
"O, exactly so!" and Mr. Searle burst into resounding laughter. "He tells me," he resumed, in a moment, "that he is an invalid. I should never have fancied it."
"Within the past few hours," I said, "he's a changed man. Your place and your kindness have refreshed him immensely."
Mr. Searle uttered the little shapeless ejaculation with which many an Englishman is apt to announce the concussion of any especial courtesy of speech. He bent his eyes on the floor frowningly, and then, to my surprise, he suddenly stopped and looked at me with a
