twirling my card in her fingers. I immediately bowed. Searle, I think, gazed marvelling.
"If I am not mistaken," said the lady, "one of you gentlemen is Mr. Clement Searle."
"My friend is Mr. Clement Searle," I replied. "Allow me to add that I alone am responsible for your having received his name."
"I should have been sorry not to receive it," said Miss Searle, beginning to blush. "Your being from America has led me to—to interrupt you."
"The interruption, madam, has been on our part. And with just that excuse,—that we are from America."
Miss Searle, while I spoke, had fixed her eyes on my friend, as he stood silent beneath Sir Joshua's portrait. The housekeeper, amazed and mystified, took a liberty. "Heaven preserve us, Miss! It's your great-uncle's picture come to life."
"I'm not mistaken, then," said Miss Searle. "We are distantly related." She had the aspect of an extremely modest woman. She was evidently embarrassed at having to proceed unassisted in her overture. Searle eyed her with gentle wonder from head to foot. I fancied I read his thoughts. This, then, was Miss Searle, his maiden-cousin, prospective heiress of these manorial acres and treasures. She was a person of about thirty-three years of age, taller than most wo-
