“I accept, whatever it be. Name it.”
“That you be your own friend; that you address yourself to the business of life seriously and steadily, resolving to employ your abilities as a means of advancement, not as a mere instrument for amusement; determine, in fact, to be something besides a dilettante and an idler.”
“Is it a bargain, then, if I do this?” asked he, eagerly.
“Yes; I promise you the high and mighty boon of my friendship,” replied she, with mock solemnity.
“And so we seal our contract,” said he, pressing her hand to his lips, but with an air of such respectful gallantry that the action implied nothing bordering on a liberty.
“And now I leave you,” said she, as she opened the wicket-gate of a small flower-garden; “such conferences as ours must not be repeated, or they might be remarked upon. Good-bye.” And without waiting for his reply, she passed on into the garden, while Massingbred stood gazing after her silently and thoughtfully.
CHAPTER XX. AN ELECTION ADDRESS
“Am I behind time, Mr. Massingbred?” said Kate Henderson, as she entered the library, about a week after the events we have last recorded,—“am I behind time?” said she, approaching a table where the young man sat surrounded with a mass of letters and papers.
“Not very much,” said he, rising, and placing a chair for her; “and I take it for granted you came as soon as you could.”