“I have been ill,” said I, struggling to repress emotion and a fit of coughing together.
“It is that dreadful life of England, depend upon it,” said she eagerly; “that fearful career of high excitement and dissipation combined—the fatigues of parliament—the cares and anxieties of party—the tremendous exertions for success—the torturing dread of failure. Why didn’t you remain in diplomacy?”
“It looked so very like idling,” said I, laughingly, and endeavouring to assume something of her own easy tone.
“So it is. But what better can one have, after all?” said she, with a faint sigh.
“When they are happy,” added I, stealing a glance at her beneath my eyelids. She turned away, however, before I had succeeded, and I could merely mark that her breathing was quick and hurried.
“I hope you have no grudge towards Favancourt?” said she hastily, and with a manner that shewed how difficult it was to disguise agitation. “He would be delighted to see you again! He is always talking of your success in the House, and often prophesies the most brilliant advancement for you.”
“I have outlived resentment,” said I, in a low whisper: “would that I could add, other feelings were as easily forgotten.”
Not at once catching my meaning, she turned her full and lustrous eyes upon me, and then suddenly aware of my words, or reading the explanation in my own looks, she blushed deeply, and after a pause said,
“And what are your plans now? do you remain here some time?”
“No, I am trying to reach Italy. It has become as classic to die there nowadays, as once it was to live in that fair land.”