Coningsby remarked the fanciful beauty of the portal; its twisted columns, and Caryatides carved in dark oak.
‘Yes, it’s very well,’ said Millbank; ‘but I really do not know why I came here; my presence is an effort. Oswald does not care for the place; none of us do, I believe.’
‘Oh! I like it now, father; and Edith doats on it.’
‘She was very happy at Millbank,’ said the father, rather sharply.
‘We are all of us happy at Millbank,’ said Oswald.
‘I was much struck with the valley and the whole settlement when I first saw it,’ said Coningsby.
‘Suppose you go and see about the tackle, Oswald,’ said Mr. Millbank, ‘and Mr. Coningsby and I will take a stroll on the terrace in the meantime.’
The habit of obedience, which was supreme in this family, instantly carried Oswald away, though he was rather puzzled why his father should be so anxious about the preparation of the fishing-tackle, as he rarely used it. His son had no sooner departed than Mr. Millbank turned to Coningsby, and said very abruptly,
‘You have never seen my own room here, Mr. Coningsby; step in, for I wish to say a word to you.’ And thus speaking, he advanced before the astonished, and rather agitated Coningsby, and led the way through a door and long passage to a room of moderate dimensions, partly furnished as a library, and full of parliamentary papers and blue-books. Shutting the door with some earnestness and pointing to a chair, he begged his guest to be seated. Both in their chairs, Mr. Millbank, clearing his throat, said without preface, ‘I have reason to believe, Mr. Coningsby, that you are attached to my daughter?’
‘I have been attached to her for a long time most ardently,’ replied Coningsby, in a calm and rather measured tone, but looking very pale.