Sir Harry bristled up, saying, “Sir, my daughter shall go into no family that—that has not a proper appreciation of—and expectations befitting her position.”
“Dear papa,” exclaimed Lady Tyrrell, “he means no such thing. He is only crediting his mother with his own romantic ardour and disinterestedness.—Hark! there actually is the gong. Come and have some luncheon, and contain yourself, you foolish boy!”
“I am sorry I said anything that seemed unfitting,” said Frank, meekly. “You know I could not mean it!”
“Yes, yes, yes, I bear no malice; only one does not like to see one’s own child courted without a voice in the matter, and to hear she is to be taken as a favour, expecting nothing. But, there, we’ll say no more. I like you, Frank Charnock! and only wish you had ten thousand a year, or were any one else; but you see—you see. Well, let’s eat our luncheon.”
“Does she know this decision?” asked Frank, aside, as he held open the door for Lady Tyrrell.
“Yes, she knows it can go no further; though we are too merciful to deny you the beatific vision, provided you are good, and abstain from any more little tendresses for the present.—Ah!”—enter Cecil—“I thought we should see you to-day, my dear!”
“Yes; I am on my way to meet my husband at the station,” said Cecil, meeting her in the hall, and returning her kiss.
“Is Raymond coming home to-day?” said Frank, as he too exchanged greetings. “Ah! I remember; I did not see you at breakfast this morning.”
“No!” and there was signification in the voice; but Frank did not heed it, for coming down-stairs was Eleonora, her face full of a blushing sweetness, which gave it all the beauty it had ever lacked.
He could do no more than look and speak before all the rest; the carriage was ordered for the sisters to go out together, and he lingered in vain for a few words in private, for Sir Harry kept him talking about Captain Duncombe’s wonderful colt, till Cecil had driven off one way, and their two hostesses the other; and he could only ride home to tell his mother how he had sped.