“Miss Neuchatel?”
“Adriana. Do not you agree with me?”
“Miss Neuchatel will never marry,” said Lady Montfort, “unless she loses her fortune.”
“Well; do you know, I have sometimes thought that she liked Endymion? I never could encourage such a feeling; and Endymion, I am sure, would not. I wish, I almost wish,” added Lady Roehampton, trying to speak with playfulness, “that you would use your magic influence, dear Lady Montfort, and bring it about. He would soon get into parliament then.”
“I have tried to marry Miss Neuchatel once,” said Lady Montfort, with a mantling cheek, “and I am glad to say I did not succeed. My match-making is over.”
There was a dead silence; one of those still moments which almost seem inconsistent with life, certainly with the presence of more than one human being. Lady Roehampton seemed buried in deep thought. She was quite abstracted, her eyes fixed, and fixed upon the ground. All the history of her life passed through her brain—all the history of their lives; from the nursery to this proud moment, proud even with all its searching anxiety. And yet the period of silence could be counted almost by seconds. Suddenly she looked up with a flushed cheek and a dazed look, and said, “It must be done.”
Lady Montfort sprang forward with a glance radiant with hope and energy, and kissed her on both cheeks. “Dearest Lady Roehampton,” she exclaimed, “dearest Myra! I knew you would agree with me. Yes! it must be done.”
“You will see him perhaps before I do?” inquired Myra rather hesitatingly.
“I see him every day at the same time,” replied Lady Montfort. “He generally walks down to the House of Commons with Mr. Wilton, and when they have answered questions, and he has got all the news of the lobby, he comes to me. I always manage to get home from my drive to give him half an hour before dinner.”