“I 'm afraid, my Lady, the lapse was on my side,” said Kate, scarcely repressing a smile at her own hardihood.
“Your side! Do you mean to say that you so far forgot what was due to the station of the Duchesse de Mirecourt, that you left her letter unreplied to?”
“Not exactly, my Lady.”
“Then, pray, what do you mean?”
Kate paused for a second or two, and then, in a very calm and collected voice, replied,—“I told the Duchesse, in my last letter, that I should write no more,—that my life was thrown in a wild, unfrequented region, where no incident broke the monotony, and that were I to continue our correspondence, my letters must degenerate into a mere selfish record of my own sentiments, as unprofitable to read as ungraceful to write; and so I said good-bye—or au revoir, at least—till other scenes might suggest other thoughts.”
“A most complimentary character of our Land of the West, certainly! I really was not aware before that Cro' Martin was regarded as an 'oubliette.'”
Kate made no answer,—a silence which seemed rather to irritate than appease her Ladyship.
“I hope you included the family in your dreary picture. I trust it was not a mere piece of what artists call still life, Miss Henderson?”
“No, my Lady,” said she, with a deep sigh; but the tone and manner of the rejoinder were anything but apologetic.
“Now I call that as well done as anything one sees in Hyde Park,” cried the Captain, directing attention as he spoke to a very handsome chariot which had just driven up to the door. “They're inquiring for somebody here,” continued he, as he watched the Chasseur as he came and went from the carriage to the house.