"Have I? ... My dear Cis, what a question! Why bill-stamps are my stock-in-trade; when the day—distant yet, I hope—shall arrive that is to find me without a stamp, and without a friend to go through the matter of form, then will Francis Forrester gracefully bid adieu to this dung-heap of civilization, and waft his charming person into other regions. Here you are, old fellow! just scrawl your name across that: your coachmaker will discount it."
Having settled this little matter of business, Cecil drove to Hester's.
CHAPTER XII.
HESTER'S LOVE.
To meet her spirit in a nimble kiss,
Distilling panting ardour to her breast.
JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.
S'il ose m'alléguer une odieuse loi
Quand je fais tout pour lui, s'il ne fait rien pour moi;
Dès le moment, sans songer si je l'aime,
Sans consulter enfin si je me perds moi même
J'abandonne l'ingrat.
RACINE.—Bajazet.
Cecil found Hester writing, in a charming négligé. She threw down her pen with a movement of impatient joy as he entered.
She took his outstretched hand in hers, and pressing it tenderly, looked with serious alarm into his face as she said, "You are not well. Something is on your mind. Am I right?"
"You are."
"Sit down on the sofa—there." She sat by his side still holding his hand, which he could not withdraw. "Now, tell me what it is."