“‘Tis your affair now, not mine, Mr. Travers. I no longer presume to interfere. I leave the neighbourhood to-morrow: see if you can negotiate with Mr. Bowles. I have the honour to wish you a good evening.”
“Nay, young gentleman, I cannot allow you to quit me thus. You have declined apparently to join the dancers, but you will at least join the supper. Come!”
“Thank you sincerely, no. I came here merely on the business which your system has settled.”
“But I am not sure that it is settled.” Here Mr. Travers wound his arm within Kenelm’s, and looking him full in the face, said, “I know that I am speaking to a gentleman at least equal in rank to myself, but as I enjoy the melancholy privilege of being the older man, do not think I take an unwarrantable liberty in asking if you object to tell me your name. I should like to introduce you to my daughter, who is very partial to Jessie Wiles and to Will Somers. But I can’t venture to inflame her imagination by designating you as a prince in disguise.”
“Mr. Travers, you express yourself with exquisite delicacy. But I am just starting in life, and I shrink from mortifying my father by associating my name with a signal failure. Suppose I were an anonymous contributor, say, to ‘The Londoner,’ and I had just brought that highly intellectual journal into discredit by a feeble attempt at a good-natured criticism or a generous sentiment, would that be the fitting occasion to throw off the mask, and parade myself to a mocking world as the imbecile violator of an established system? Should I not, in a moment so untoward, more than ever desire to merge my insignificant unit in the mysterious importance which the smallest Singular obtains when he makes himself a Plural, and speaks not as ‘I,’ but as ‘We’? We are insensible to the charm of young ladies; We are not bribed by suppers; We, like the witches of ‘Macbeth,’ have no name on earth; We are the greatest wisdom of the greatest number; We are so upon system; We salute you, Mr. Travers, and depart unassailable.”
Here Kenelm rose, doffed and replaced his hat in majestic salutation, turned towards the entrance of the fernery, and found himself suddenly face to face with George Belvoir, behind whom followed, with a throng of guests, the fair form of Cecilia. George Belvoir caught Kenelm by the hand, and exclaimed, “Chillingly! I thought I could not be mistaken.”
“Chillingly!” echoed Leopold Travers from behind. “Are you the son of my old friend Sir Peter?”
Thus discovered and environed, Kenelm did not lose his wonted presence of mind; he turned round to Leopold Travers, who was now close in his rear, and whispered, “If my father was your friend, do not disgrace his son. Do not say I am a failure. Deviate from your system, and let Will Somers succeed Mrs. Bawtrey.” Then reverting his face to Mr. Belvoir, he said tranquilly, “Yes; we have met before.”
“Cecilia,” said Travers, now interposing, “I am happy to introduce to you as Mr. Chillingly, not only the son of an old friend of mine, not only the knight-errant of whose gallant conduct on behalf of your protegee Jessie Wiles we have heard so much, but the eloquent arguer who has conquered my better judgment in a matter on which I thought myself infallible. Tell Mr. Lethbridge that I accept Will Somers as a tenant for Mrs. Bawtrey’s premises.”
Kenelm grasped the Squire’s hand cordially. “May it be in my power to do a kind thing to you, in spite of any system to the contrary!”