One evening—Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, to Graham; she had left me in the library, reading—M. de Bassompierre came in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me to remain—gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. He had taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened a desk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this book he studied a certain entry for several minutes.
"Miss Snowe," said he, laying it down, "do you know my little girl's age?"
"About eighteen, is it not, sir?"
"It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of May, in the year 18—, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve—fourteen—an indefinite date; but she seemed a child."
"She is about eighteen," I repeated. "She is grown up; she will be no taller."
"My little jewel!" said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated like some of his daughter's accents.
He sat very thoughtful.
"Sir, don't grieve," I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken as they were.
"She is the only pearl I have," he said; "and now others will find out that she is pure and of price: they will covet her."
I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had shone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom embellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate the origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. de Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he was logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided him through a long labyrinth.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She is up-stairs."
"What is she doing?"
