"Such a girl as Estelle Cressingham must always find admirers."
"Hundreds; but as the estates, like the title, have passed to the next male heir, and Lady Naseby has only a life-rent of the jointure house in Hants--Walcot Park, a lovely place--she is anxious that her daughter should make a most suitable marriage."
"Which means lots of tin, I suppose?" said I, sourly.
"Exactly," responded Winifred, determined, perhaps, if I had the bad taste to speak so much of Estelle, to say unpleasant things; "and the favoured parti at present is Viscount Pottersleigh, who comes here to-morrow, as his letter informed her."
"Old Pottersleigh is sixty if he is a day!" said I, emphatically.
"What has age to do with the matter in view? Money and position are preferable to all fancies of the heart, I fear."
"Nay, nay, Winifred, you belie yourself and Lady Estelle too; love is before everything!"
She laughed at my energy, while I began to feel that, next to making love, there is nothing so pleasant or so suggestive as talking of it to a pretty girl; and I beg to assure you, that it was somewhat perilous work with one like Winifred Lloyd; a girl who had the sweetest voice, the most brilliant complexion, and the softest eyes perhaps in all North Wales. She now drew her hand away; till then I had half forgot it was her hand I had been holding.
"Remember that oft-quoted line in the song of Montrose," said she, pretty pointedly.
"Which? for I haven't an idea."