"All I ask," I was saying to myself, "is that you will give me another
chance, and take me seriously this time, if I prove myself worthy in the
way you want."

But I am glad to think I had not said it when tea came up, and saved a
dangerous situation by breaking an insidious spell.

I stayed another hour at least, and there are few in my memory which
passed more deliciously at the time. In writing of it now I feel that I
have made too little of Catherine Evers, in my anxiety not to make too
much, yet am about to leave her to stand or to fall in the reader's
opinion by such impression as I have already succeeded in creating in
his or her mind. Let me add one word, or two, while yet I may. A
baron's daughter (though you might have known Catherine some time
without knowing that), she had nevertheless married for mere love as a
very young girl, and had been left a widow before the birth of her boy.
I never knew her husband, though we were distant kin, nor yet herself
during the long years through which she mourned him. Catherine Evers was
beginning to recover her interest in the world when first we met; but
she never returned to that identical fold of society in which she had
been born and bred. It was, of course, despite her own performances, a
fold to which the worldly wolf was no stranger; and her trouble had
turned a light-hearted little lady into an eager, intellectual,
speculative being, with a sort of shame for her former estate, and an
undoubted reactionary dislike of dominion and of petty pomp. Of her own
high folk one neither saw nor heard a thing; her friends were the
powerful preachers of most denominations, and one or two only painted or
wrote; for she had been greatly exercised about religion, and somewhat
solaced by the arts.