"My dear Bell, you are not aware Lord Farnborough has placed his cloak under your feet."
"Thank you, my lord."
"For Heaven's sake," whispered her ladyship, "throw off the girl, and be a woman of dignified, composed manners."
"I wish I was any thing but what I am, mamma."
"Nonsense; not one of your sisters acted so girlishly. I beg you will consider my shocked feelings."
Christobelle did make an effort to shake off the bonds which seemed to bind her spirits with links of iron. She turned from the contemplation of Sir John Spottiswoode and Fanny Ponsonby, but they rose before her like the undying Hydra. She saw them, in imagination, engaged in agreeable conversation—the beautiful eyes of Fanny Ponsonby fixed upon her companion's face, and her mind informed by his remarks. Christobelle saw him, in fancy, fascinated by her loveliness—eager to please—absorbed—forgetful of their own pleasant walks together—their readings—their long and happy pauses on the terrace, watching the last beams of the summer sun. She started with terror.
"My dear Bell, you are not alarmed?" exclaimed her mother. "Lord Farnborough is kind enough to take the helm."
Captain Ponsonby smiled. "What! the Genius of the Lake alarmed upon her own element? Forbid it, storms and clouds!"
"Miss Wetheral, you would feel more undisturbed if you were at my left hand," whispered Lord Farnborough.
"Indeed, Miss Wetheral would deceive herself, if she looked for rest near you, Farnborough: I will not part with my supporters. Miss Wetheral, do not be inveigled away from me. No whispering, unless it is allowed to all, if you please."