This daughter of his host was of tender years; apparently she could scarcely have counted sixteen summers. She was delicate and fragile, but as she raised her still blushing visage to her father’s guest, Coningsby felt that he had never beheld a countenance of such striking and such peculiar beauty.
‘My only daughter, Mr. Coningsby, Edith; a Saxon name, for she is the daughter of a Saxon.’
But the beauty of the countenance was not the beauty of the Saxons. It was a radiant face, one of those that seem to have been touched in their cradle by a sunbeam, and to have retained all their brilliancy and suffused and mantling lustre. One marks sometimes such faces, diaphanous with delicate splendour, in the southern regions of France. Her eye, too, was the rare eye of Aquitaine; soft and long, with lashes drooping over the cheek, dark as her clustering ringlets.
They entered the drawing-room.
‘Mr. Coningsby,’ said Millbank to his daughter, ‘is in this part of the world only for a few hours, or I am sure he would become our guest. He has, however, promised to stay with us now and dine.’
‘If Miss Millbank will pardon this dress,’ said Coningsby, bowing an apology for his inevitable frock and boots; the maiden raised her eyes and bent her head.
The hour of dinner was at hand. Millbank offered to show Coningsby to his dressing-room. He was absent but a few minutes. When he returned he found Miss Millbank alone. He came somewhat suddenly into the room. She was playing with her dog, but ceased the moment she observed Coningsby.
Coningsby, who since his practice with Lady Everingham, flattered himself that he had advanced in small talk, and was not sorry that he had now an opportunity of proving his prowess, made some lively observations about pets and the breeds of lapdogs, but he was not fortunate in extracting a response or exciting a repartee. He began then on the beauty of Millbank, which he would on no account have avoided seeing, and inquired when she had last heard of her brother. The young lady, apparently much distressed, was murmuring something about Antwerp, when the entrance of her father relieved her from her embarrassment.
Dinner being announced, Coningsby offered his arm to his fair companion, who took it with her eyes fixed on the ground.
‘You are very fond, I see, of flowers,’ said Coningsby, as they moved along; and the young lady said ‘Yes.’