We left Colonel Charles Manners standing at the library door, with his hand upon the great brazen ball, embossed with sundry figures, which served as the handle to the lock. It may be remembered that Colonel Manners, being somewhat troubled with the internal contention between feeling for his friend's uneasiness and wonder for its cause, was seeking an empty room to let those two emotions calm themselves; but when he turned the above brazen ball, and the door opened to his will, he found that he had been mistaken in looking for solitude there; for the first things he saw were, a very beautiful face and a pair of bright gay eyes looking up at him from the other side of the little table on the left hand, with the hat and feathers, which it was then customary for ladies to wear in riding, thrown somewhat back from the forehead, so as to show the whole countenance of Isadore Falkland, raising her face with a look of half-laughing vexation, as if asking, "Who is about to disturb me now, when I came here in search of solitude?"
The interpretation of the expression was so self-evident that Colonel Manners paused with a smile; and Isadore, finding that her face had told the truth somewhat too plainly, laughed, and begged him to come in. "Nay, Miss Falkland," said Manners, "I will not disturb you. Your look, I can assure you, said, Not at home! as plain as those words ever were spoken." And he took a step back, as if to withdraw.
"The servant made a mistake, then," replied Isadore; "I did not bid him say, 'Not at home' to Colonel Manners. But the truth is, I am endeavouring to compose my mind."
"Indeed!" he exclaimed, in some surprise; "I am very sorry to hear that any thing has occurred to agitate it."
"And can you say so, Colonel Manners?" asked Isadore laughing, "when you, yourself, were art and part in the deed?"
Manners was still more surprised; but, as he saw that the agitation of which Miss Falkland complained was of no very serious nature, it only affected him so far as to bring him two steps farther into the room.
"If I am one of the culprits," he said, approaching nearer the table, where Isadore sat enjoying his astonishment,--for hers was one of those light and happy hearts that can win a drop of honey from every flower, however small,--"if I am one of the culprits, I claim the right of an Englishman to hear the charge fairly read, Miss Falkland. Otherwise I refuse to plead."
"Well, then, Colonel Manners," she replied, "you stand arraigned of having galloped as fast, when riding with two ladies, as if you had been at the head of your regiment; and of being art and part with Edward de Vaux in shaking the little brains possessed by one Isadore Falkland out of their proper place. The truth is," she added more seriously, "that after riding very fast, my ideas, which are never in a very composed and tranquil state, get into such a whirl, that I am always obliged to come and read some good book for a quarter of an hour ere I dare venture into rational society. Do you feel the same, Colonel Manners?"
"Not exactly," answered Manners smiling, "but I rather fancy that I am more accustomed to galloping than you are, Miss Falkland; and that had you been as much used to that exercise as I have been, during eighteen years' service, you would find your ideas quite as clear, after the longest gallop that ever was ridden, as they were before you set out."
By this time Colonel Manners had so far carried on his approaches that he was in the midst of the library, the door shut behind him; and a sofa in the window--not very far from Miss Falkland's left hand, with two or three books upon a console hard by--within one step of his position. What Isadore rejoined to his reply matters little. It was just sufficient to seat him on the sofa, with a book in his hand, which he had not the slightest intention of reading; and a conversation began, which, though it had no particular tendency, and was of no particular import, stretched itself over full three quarters of an hour. It was, however, one of those conversations which are the most pleasant that it is possible to imagine--one of those conversations, when an intelligent man and an intelligent woman sit down, without the intention of talking about any thing in particular, and end by talking of every thing under the sun. They must, however, feel convinced, like Isadore and Colonel Manners, that there is not the slightest chance on earth of their falling in love with each other; for the least drop of love, or any thing like it, changes the whole essence of the thing, and it is no longer conversation. But Isadore and Colonel Manners never dreamt of such a thing; and went on, letting subject run into subject, and thought follow thought, as they liked--not like a regiment of infantry, indeed, advancing in single file, one behind the other, with measured step and stiff demeanour, but like a bevy of rosy children rushing from a school-room door, sometimes one at a time, sometimes two or three linked hand in hand together, sometimes half a dozen in a crowd tumbling over one another's shoulders. Thus ran on their ideas, gaily, lightly, of every variety of face and complexion, without ceremony and without restraint. It is true it required some activity to keep up the game with spirit, for both were rapid; and Isadore, when she could not easily express herself in one way, often took another, more fanciful and flowery, so that had not Manners's wit been as agile as her own he might often have been left behind.