‘I do very much, and to speak to you. For these many days I have intended it; but I do not know how it is, I have postponed and postponed our interview. I begin to believe,’ she added, looking up with a faint smile, ‘I am half afraid to speak.’
‘Good God!’ said the Baronet, really alarmed, ‘you are in no trouble?’
‘Oh, no! make yourself easy. Trouble, trouble! No, no! I am not exactly in trouble. I am not in debt; I am not in a scrape; but—but—but I am in something—something worse, perhaps: I am in love.’
The Baronet looked puzzled. He did not for a moment suspect himself to be the hero; yet, although their mutual confidence was illimitable, he did not exactly see why, in the present instance, there had been such urgency to impart an event not altogether either unnatural or miraculous.
‘In love!’ said Sir Lucius; ‘a very proper situation for the prettiest woman in London. Everybody is in love with you; and I heartily rejoice that some one of our favoured sex is about to avenge our sufferings.’
‘Point de moquerie, Lucy! I am miserable.’
‘Dear little pigeon, what is the matter?’
‘Ah, me!’
‘Speak,-speak,’ said he, in a gay tone; ‘you were not made for sighs, but smiles. Begin——’
‘Well, then, the young Duke——’