“That big London man whom they call Sir Thomas mentioned her name the day we dined at Braefieldville.”
“I remember,—as having been at the Court ball.”
“He said she was very handsome.”
“So she is.”
“Is she a poem too?”
“No; that never struck me.”
“Mr. Emlyn, I suppose, would call her perfectly brought up,—well educated. He would not raise his eyebrows at her as he does at me,—poor me, Cinderella!”
“Ah, Miss Mordaunt, you need not envy her. Again let me say that you could very soon educate yourself to the level of any young ladies who adorn the Court balls.”
“Ay; but then I should not be a poem,” said Lily, with a shy, arch side-glance at his face.
They were now on the bridge, and before Kenelm could answer Lily resumed quickly, “You need not come any farther; it is out of your way.”