Either Grenfell had not heard the name, O’Hara, well, or had not connected it with the past; very possibly, he had not heard it ever before, for it suggested nothing to him; still her features continued to puzzle him; through all, however, was he enough man of the world to conceal any show of this; and, as he sat down beside the sofa where she sat, opened the usual common-places of first acquaintance. He spoke of the country and its charming scenery, especially around Dalradern, which was all new to him; “for I am ashamed,” added he, “to own, I know more of Switzerland than I do of Wales. Perhaps in this, Mademoiselle is a defaulter like myself?”
Here was a question adroitly insinuated, to induce what might lead to some disclosure as to whence she came, or where she had been.
“I am very fond of mountains,” said she, as if mistaking his question.
“Ladies are the less selfish in their love of scenery,” resumed he, with a little smile, “that they do not connect mountains with grouse shooting. Now, I’m afraid a man in his admiration for the hill-side and the heather, has some lurking dreams about deer-stalking, and in the highland ‘tarn’ his thoughts invariably run on ten-pound trout.”
“That is the practical side by which men assert their superiority, I believe; but perhaps they mistake occasionally; I suspect they do, at least.”
“You mean, that women have the quality also?”
“I fancy that women are not so prone to parade this egotism,” said she, with a slight flashing of the eye.
“That may mean something very severe,” said he, laughing.
“In which case, I could not have said what I intended.”
Though this was said apologetically, there was a saucy defiance in her look that declared anything rather than apology.