"Well, certainly, uncle,—as you wish it. I must look about me—seriously. I know you wish me to be happy. I'm very grateful; you have always bestowed so much of your thought and care upon me—too good, a great deal."
So spoke the young man—white as that sheet of paper on which his uncle had been pencilling two or three of what he called his thoughts—and almost as unconscious of the import of the words he repeated.
"I'm glad, my dear Cleve, you are sensible that I have been, I may say, kind; and now let me say that I think Ethel has a great deal in her favour. There are others, however, I am well aware, and there is time to look about, but I should wish something settled this season—in fact, before we break up, about it; in short I have, as I said, made up my mind. I don't act without reasons; I never do, and mine are conclusive; and it was on this topic, my dear Cleve, I wished to see you. And now I think you may as well have some dinner. I'm afraid I've detained you here rather long."
And Lord Verney rose, and moved toward a book-case with Hansard in it, to signify that the conference was ended, and that he desired to be alone in his study.
CHAPTER XVII.
AN OVATION.
Cleve had no dinner; he had supped full of horrors. He got on his coat and hat, and appeared nowhere that evening, but took an immense walk instead, in the hope I dare say of tiring out his agony—perhaps simply because quietude and uninterrupted thought were unendurable.
Next day hope began a little to revive. An inventive mind is inexhaustible; and are not the resources of delay always considerable?