“And how do you like Kesterwick, Miss Florence?” asked Mr. Cardus, with his usual courtly smile.
“It is much what I expected—a little duller, perhaps,” she answered composedly.
“Ah, perhaps you have been accustomed to a gayer spot.”
“Yes, till my mother died we lived at Brighton; there is plenty of life there. Not that we could mix in it, we were too poor; but at any rate we could watch it.”
“Do you like life, Miss Florence?”
“Yes, we only live such a short time. I should like,” she went on, throwing her head back, and half-closing her eyes, “to see as much as I can, and to exhaust every emotion.”
“Perhaps, Miss Florence, you would find some of them rather unpleasant,” answered Mr. Cardus, with a smile.
“Possibly, but it is better to travel through a bad country than to grow in a good one.”
Mr. Cardus smiled again: the girl interested him rather.
“Do you know, Miss Ceswick,” he said, changing the subject, and addressing the stately old lady, who was sitting smoothing her laces, and looking rather aghast at her niece’s utterances, “that this young gentleman is going to college, and Jeremy, too?”