An expressive squeeze of the hand was the reply to this affectionate apostrophe on the part of the knight.
The shorter female, whom Sir Christopher concluded to be his fair one's attendant,—inasmuch as Miss Mordaunt had informed him by note in the morning that she had secured a faithful maid to accompany her,—was also handed into the post-chaise: the knight followed—and the vehicle hurried away like wildfire.
Sir Christopher and the female whom he believed to be Miss Mordaunt, sate on the back seat, and the other young lady occupied the seat facing them.
For some time there was a dead silence inside the chaise; but at the expiration of about ten minutes, Sir Christopher began to fidget like a gentleman at a public dinner, who, though "unaccustomed to public speaking," nevertheless experiences a nervous anxiety to address the audience.
"My dear Julia—ahem!" began the knight: "I hope you—you don't feel cold, dear?"
The female thus addressed threw her arms round Sir Christopher's neck, and clasped him so fondly that, what with the tightness of the embrace and the contact of the fur in which she was enveloped, he might have been pardoned had he fancied for a moment that he was being hugged by a bear.
"Oh! dearest Julia—how happy I am!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, nearly suffocated by this display of fondness. "And you, Julia—are you happy, my love?"
"Quite—too happy!" murmured his companion.
"And yet—methinks your voice sounds strange, Julia," said the knight. "What—what is the matter with you?"
"Only this, Sir Christopher—that I am not Miss Mordaunt——"