Margaret was struck with the appearance of the dining-room. It was a large dark room; for although crowded with lamps, black oak is the most difficult of all things to light up. The mantle-piece was in the form of a Gothic arch; the ceiling crossed with carved beams of wood; and at the end of the apartment there was an arched recess, where stood the sideboard loaded with old plate.
"Are you fond of talking?" said Mr. Evan, as soon as they were placed at table.
Margaret thought the question an odd one; but she said that she had never considered the subject, and that she should hardly think herself a good judge of her own peculiarities.
"Singular now, what different replies people give to the same question," said her companion. "Most young ladies say, oh, no, Mr. Evan! Or, how can you ask such things, Mr. Conway? Or, dear me, what makes you think so? You may imagine how much refreshed I feel, when a young lady makes an answer which shows something like thought and originality. Pray who taught you to sing?"
"I believe, I taught myself," said Margaret, amused by the singularity of her neighbour.
"Very industrious of you!" said he smiling. "It is a great exertion to teach oneself any-thing. One has to undergo the double labour of master and scholar—both hard situations. Do you like the society in this neighbourhood?"
"I know nothing of it. I arrived to-day, just before dinner."
"But the general aspect of it—do pronounce an opinion. What a combination of grace and intelligence in the ladies! and—and—what is the corresponding virtue in the gentlemen?"
"I cannot tell," said Margaret.
"Oh! let us come to a decision—or, suppose we illustrate. The man opposite, whom that amiable girl is trying to encourage, mistaking awkwardness for shyness,—is he your beau-ideal?"