“That is as it should be, Dunn, and I am rejoiced to hear it. It is in no spirit of self-praise I say it, but in simple justice,—we do—my daughter and myself, both of us—do endeavor to make her feel that her position is less that of dependant than—than—companion.”
“I should have expected nothing less from your Lordship nor Lady Augusta,” said Dunn, gravely.
“Yes, yes; you knew Augusta formerly; you can appreciate her high-minded and generous character, though I think she was a mere child when you saw her first.”
“Very young indeed, my Lord,” said Dunn, coloring faintly.
“She is exactly, however, what she then promised to be,—an Arden, a genuine Arden, sir; no deceit, no double; frank, outspoken; too much so, perhaps, for our age of mock courtesy, but a noble-hearted girl, and one fit to adorn any station.”
There was an honest, earnest sincerity in the old Lord's manner that made Dunn listen with respect to the sentiments be uttered, though in his heart the epithet “girl,” as applied to Lady Augusta, seemed somewhat ill chosen.
“I see you take no wine, so that, if you have no objection, we'll join the ladies.”
“Your Lordship was good enough to tell me that I was to make myself perfectly at home here; may I begin at once to avail myself of your kindness, and say that for this evening I beg to retire early? I have a number of letters to read, and some to answer.”
“Really, Lady Augusta will feel quite offended if you slight her tea-table.”
“Nay, my Lord. It is only for this evening, and I am sure you will make my excuses becomingly.”