"You must have a good memory for faces, then," he said, laughing.
"I think a circumstance made me recollect you, sir. It was, that your face struck upon me at Mademoiselle Barlieu's as being familiar to my memory; I felt sure that if I had not seen you before, I had seen some one very like you."
He turned round and looked at me a full minute ere he spoke.
"Who was it, Miss Hereford?"
"I cannot tell, sir. I wish I could tell. The resemblance in your face haunts me still."
"It's not much of a face to remember," he slightingly said, as a stout gentleman came through the entrance-gates. He carried a roll of paper, or parchment, and was wiping his brows, his hat off.
"You look warm, Dexter," called out Mr. Chandos.
"It's a close day for autumn, sir, and I walked over," was the response of the new-comer, as he turned out of the great drive and came up. "I'm glad to catch you at home, Mr. Chandos. I have had an offer for this house."
Mr. Chandos made room for him to sit down. "I have been turning myself into a knight-errant, Dexter; delivering a lady from the fangs of a ferocious dog."
Mr. Dexter looked as if he did not know whether to take the words in jest or earnest.