In fact, Mr. M’Kinlay was in the act of determining with himself the propriety of a formal demand for Miss Courtenay in marriage, and endeavouring to make it appear that he “owed it to himself,” but, in reality, was almost indifferent as to the upshot. There are such self-delusions in the lives of very shrewd men when they come to deal with women, and in the toils of one of these we leave him.
CHAPTER LXVIII. TRUSTFULNESS
Perhaps the night brought reflection; at all events, Mr. M’Kinlay had so far recovered himself, that he came down to breakfast with a smile on his face and a mass of fresh-opened letters in his hand, with whose contents he purposed to amuse the company.
Miss Courtenay’s manner was so kind, so actually cordial, too, that he felt perfectly reassured on the score of their last interview; and as Sir Within was not present—he never made his appearance till late in the afternoon—all went on pleasantly and well.
Giving the precedence to “fashionable intelligence,” Mr. M’Kinlay related how certain great people were about to marry certain other great people, with intimations as to the settlements, and, in some cases, a minute account of the costly presents to the bride—all circumstances which, somehow, seem to have their interest for every age, and class, and condition of humanity. Some of these were known to Vyner, and he asked about them with eagerness. Grenfell knew none of them except by name, but he spoke of them with all the confidence of an old and intimate friend. Of the “men,” without using their titles; of the “women,” as dear Lady Fanny, or that charming little Lady Grace. So that hearing him was actually imbibing an atmosphere of aristocracy, inhaling the Peerage at every respiration.
“What is the large packet with all the seals on it, Mr. M’Kinlay?” asked Georgina. “It has been torturing my curiosity in the most painful manner these last ten minutes.”
“This, my dear Miss Courtenay,” said he, laying his hand on a somewhat bulky parcel, “is not for me, though it came under cover to my address. It is for Sir Within Wardle, in a lady’s handwriting.”
“I think I know the hand,” said Miss Courtenay, as she bent her head over it.
“Of course you do, Aunt Georgy. It is Kate’s. Nobody ever made those dear little round symbols but herself. It is the very prettiest writing in the world.”