“I must not say; but I will ask permission of their concealed benefactor, and send you their address.”
A touch was laid on Kenelm’s arm, and a voice whispered, “May I ask you to present me to Miss Travers?”
“Miss Travers,” said Kenelm, “I entreat you to add to the list of your acquaintances a cousin of mine,—Mr. Chillingly Gordon.”
While Gordon addressed to Cecilia the well-bred conventionalisms with which acquaintance in London drawing-rooms usually commences, Kenelm, obedient to a sign from Lady Glenalvon, who had just re-entered the room, quitted his seat, and joined the marchioness.
“Is not that young man whom you left talking with Miss Travers your clever cousin Gordon?”
“The same.”
“She is listening to him with great attention. How his face brightens up as he talks! He is positively handsome, thus animated.”
“Yes, I could fancy him a dangerous wooer. He has wit and liveliness and audacity; he could be very much in love with a great fortune, and talk to the owner of it with a fervour rarely exhibited by a Chillingly. Well, it is no affair of mine.”
“It ought to be.”
Alas and alas! that “ought to be;” what depths of sorrowful meaning lie within that simple phrase! How happy would be our lives, how grand our actions, how pure our souls, if all could be with us as it ought to be!