“I don’t think he’s been anywhere,” Colonel Halkett half laughed at the quaint fellow. “I wish the other great-nephew of hers were in England, for us to run him against Nevil Beauchamp. He’s touring the world. I’m told he’s orthodox, and a tough debater. We have to take what we can get.”
“My best wishes for your success, and you and I will not talk of politics any more, papa. I hope Nevil will come often, for his own good; he will meet his own set of people here. And if he should dogmatize so much as to rouse our apathy to denounce his principles, we will remember that we are British, and can be sweet-blooded in opposition. Perhaps he may change, even tra le tre ore a le quattro: electioneering should be a lesson. From my recollection of Blackburn Tuckham, he was a boisterous boy.”
“He writes uncommonly clever letters home to his aunt Beauchamp. She has handed them to me to read,” said the colonel. “I do like to see tolerably solid young fellows: they give one some hope of the stability of the country.”
“They are not so interesting to study, and not half so amusing,” said Cecilia.
Colonel Halkett muttered his objections to the sort of amusement furnished by firebrands.
“Firebrand is too strong a word for poor Nevil,” she remonstrated.
In that estimate of the character of Nevil Beauchamp, Cecilia soon had to confess that she had been deceived, though not by him.
CHAPTER XVII.
HIS FRIEND AND FOE
Looking from her window very early on a Sunday morning, Miss Halkett saw Beauchamp strolling across the grass of the park. She dressed hurriedly and went out to greet him, smiling and thanking him for his friendliness in coming.
He said he was delighted, and appeared so, but dashed the sweetness. “You know I can’t canvass on Sundays!”