Mowbray found himself growing positively happy. Not only were his spirits raised by the young girl's merry and good-humored conversation, but every word which she uttered made his heart thrill more and more. All her discourse, all her satire upon the butterflies of the ball-room, had originated in the discussion of what character was proper for a lover. She scouted the idea of the love of one of these idlers attracting for a moment the regard of an intelligent woman: then was it not a just conclusion, that she looked for character, and dignity, and activity? She pointed to his own opposite, in grotesque colors, and laughed at her picture: then did she not find something to like in himself? Could she ever love him?
And Mowbray's cheek flushed—his strong frame was agitated.
"The amusing part of all this is," said Philippa, laughing, "that these gentlemen think their charms irresistible. Now, there is my cousin Charles—you know him, I believe."
"Charles——?"
"Charles Hoffland."
"Charles, your cousin!" cried Mowbray; "it is impossible!"
"Why, what is impossible in the fact? Possible? Of course it is possible!"
And Philippa laughed again more merrily than before.
"Your cousin!" repeated Mowbray; "why, Charles is one of my best friends."
"That is very proper, sir; then, you have two friends in the family."