"Chips of the old block, I suppose," returned Blanche laughing.
"Come, come;" said Mrs. Somerton, as they reached the entrance to Chirke Weston, "this is not to the purpose; recollect that George is your object to-day."
While this attack was preparing for the unconscious Mr. Gage, he was in the drawing-room pretending to read the paper, and employing himself in watching intently every movement of Harriet Conway.
As soon as Elizabeth was gone, Harriet took up a book, drew a footstool close to the fire, and sat down upon it. She wore a beautiful morning gown of purple Cashemere, worked in floss silk, and trimmed, and tied with cords and tassels. Her attitude was striking and graceful, and as she slowly turned the leaves of her book, the light of the fire sparkled on the costly rings that adorned her slender fingers.
Although Mr. Gage never removed his eyes from her, she feigned to be totally absorbed in her book, and unconscious of his presence. At last he approached her under pretence of mending the fire.
She looked up and nodded to him.
"What is that you are reading?" said he. "A French novel? I thought ladies never did such things in public."
"I thought you knew, Squire—I mean Mr. Gage, that I am never ashamed of any thing I do," said Harriet. "Besides, this is a very readable one of Eugéne Sue's."
"Yes—a certain class of French novels are very harmless," said Mr. Gage.
"Look!" said Harriet, turning the book round, and holding it up so that he might read the title: 'Arthur.'