“My love,” said Walter, “there is nothing the matter.”
“There is nothing the matter, upon my honour,” said Cousin Feenix; “and I am deeply distressed at being the means of causing you a moment’s uneasiness. I beg to assure you that there is nothing the matter. The favour that I have to ask is, simply—but it really does seem so exceedingly singular, that I should be in the last degree obliged to my friend Gay if he would have the goodness to break the—in point of fact, the ice,” said Cousin Feenix.
Walter thus appealed to, and appealed to no less in the look that Florence turned towards him, said:
“My dearest, it is no more than this. That you will ride to London with this gentleman, whom you know.”
“And my friend Gay, also—I beg your pardon!” interrupted Cousin Feenix.
“—And with me—and make a visit somewhere.”
“To whom?” asked Florence, looking from one to the other.
“If I might entreat,” said Cousin Feenix, “that you would not press for an answer to that question, I would venture to take the liberty of making the request.”
“Do you know, Walter?”
“Yes.”