“I don’t perceive the point of your witty, heartless anecdote,” said Lady Lansmere, obstinately. “Settle that, however, with Miss Digby. But to leave the very day after your friend’s daughter comes as a guest!—what will she think of it?”
Lord L’Estrange looked steadfastly at his mother. “Does it matter much what she thinks of me,—of a man engaged to another; and old enough to be—”
“I wish to heaven you would not talk of your age, Harley; it is a reflection upon mine; and I never saw you look so well nor so handsome.” With that she drew him on towards the young ladies; and, taking Helen’s arm, asked her, aside, “If she knew that Lord L’Estrange had engaged rooms at the Clarendon; and if she understood why?” As while she said this she moved on, Harley was left by Violante’s side.
“You will be very dull here, I fear, my poor child,” said he.
“Dull! But why will you call me child? Am I so very—very child-like?”
“Certainly, you are to me,—a mere infant. Have I not seen you one; have I not held you in my arms?”
VIOLANTE.—“But that was a long time ago!”
HARLEY.—“True. But if years have not stood still for you, they have not been stationary for me. There is the same difference between us now that there was then. And, therefore, permit me still to call you child, and as child to treat you!”
VIOLANTE.—“I will do no such thing. Do you know that I always thought I was good-tempered till this morning.”
HARLEY.—“And what undeceived you? Did you break your doll?”