The duke and duchess exchanged glances.
"My dear Estelle," said the duke, gravely, "I wish that you did feel interested in going out or in anything else. We were in great hopes, your mother and I, that when you returned you would show a little more animation, a little more interest in the world around you—more capacity for enjoyment. Could you not throw off that languor, and be bright, animated, and happy?"
She smiled, and if that smile concealed any pain, no one knew it.
"I am happy, papa," she said; "but my languor is, I suppose, part of myself—I should not know how to throw it off. I suppose the right thing to do when you propose a walk or a drive, on this lovely May morning, would be to blush—to glow and dimple. I am really sorry that I am so fashioned by nature as to find anything of the kind impossible."
The duke rose from his seat and went to his daughter. He placed his arm round the stately figure.
"Do you think that I am scolding you, Estelle?" he said. "I shall never do that. Nor could I be more proud of you than I am. It is only for your own sake that I speak to you, and because I long to see you happy. I should like to see you married, Estelle, and to hold my grandchildren in my arms before I die."
She started, the calm face grew a shade paler, then she clasped her arms round his neck.
"I am so happy with you and mamma," she replied, "I do not want any other love."
The next minute she had quitted the room.
The duchess looked at her husband with a smile.