"Whither are we drifting?" said Lady Esmondet, sinking into a chair.
"Whither are we drifting," echoed Vaura, with animation, "as sure as Fate, into the 'Gy' and 'An' of Bulwer's New Utopia; but talking of woman's rights, reminds me of the rights of man. Did you say dear uncle gave you your charter to meet us so opportunely, and locate us so pleasantly.".
"I did, ma belle; but you scarcely heard, as at the time you were listening to the adieux of the Douglas."
"Ah, yes, poor Roland," and Trevalyon saw that a little sigh was given, but there is no sadness in the dark eyes turned again to him, as she says, "and poor uncle; I wonder what the county people will think of Madame."
"She can make herself popular if she will; she at all events has the wherewithal to buy their vote," said Lady Esmondet, as she buried herself in London Truth.
"Yes, that's true, I suppose she will take," said Vaura, musingly.
"You don't know how delightful I find the being again with you, Miss Vernon," said Trevalyon, earnestly. "Such a lapse of time since the old life at Haughton."
"Yes, I remember well," and the rose deepened in her soft cheek, "so well the last time I saw you there."
"Do you; I am glad you do not forget what I never shall," and he leaned forward, looking at her almost gravely.
Vaura too, in her long look backward, had a tremulous softness in her expression, with a far-away look in the eyes, vividly recalling the lovely child-woman to his memory. Rousing herself, she says: "Lady Esmondet, ma chere, you should bury yourself in your couch instead of Truth, it grows late; and I am to take care of you."