A little later in the afternoon he was again talking with Kaffar, and instinctively I felt that I was the subject of his conversation.

But I did not trouble, for was not Gertrude Forrest near me, and did we not have delightful conversation together?
It seemed as if we had known each other for years, and thus it was natural for us to converse freely.
Just before dinner, Voltaire came to me, as if he wished to enter into conversation.

He commenced talking about Yorkshire, its customs, legends, and superstitions, and then, with a tact and shrewdness which I could not resist, he drew me into a talk about myself.

I felt that he was sifting me, felt that he was trying to read my very soul, and yet I could not break myself from him.
One thing was in my favour.

I knew his feelings towards me, felt sure that he hated me, and thus I kept on my guard.