“I am half a century behind all my friends in intelligence,” she said, “because of your Puritanism. One tires of your everlasting gloomy tragedies—your Broken Hearts and Philasters. I am all for the genius of comedy.”
“Then satisfy your inclinations, and read Molière. He is second only to Shakespeare.”
“I have him by heart already.”
The Broken Heart and Philaster delighted Angela; indeed, she had read the latter play so often, and with such deep interest, that many passages in it had engraved themselves on her memory, and recurred to her sometimes in the silence of wakeful nights.
That character of Bellario touched her as no heroine of the “Grand Cyrus” had power to move her. How elaborately artificial seemed the Scudèry’s polished tirades, her refinements and quintessences of the grand passion, as compared with the fervid simplicity of the woman-page—a love so humble, so intense, so unselfish!
Sir Denzil came to Chilton nearly every day, and was always graciously received by her ladyship. His Puritan gravity fell away from him like a pilgrim’s cloak, in the light air of Hyacinth’s amusements. He seemed to grow younger; and Henriette’s sharp eyes discovered an improvement in his dress.
“This is your second new suit since Christmas,” she said, “and I’ll swear it is made by the King’s tailor. Regardez done, madame! What exquisite embroidery, silver and gold thread intermixed with little sparks of garnets sewn in the pattern! It is better than anything of his lordship’s. I wish I had a father who dressed well. I’m sure mine must be the shabbiest lord at Whitehall. You have no right to be more modish than monsieur mon père, Sir Denzil.”
“Hold that insolent tongue, p’tit drôle!” cried the mother. “Sir Denzil is younger by a dozen years than his lordship, and has his reputation to make at Court, and with the ladies he will meet there. I hope you are coming to London, Denzil. You shall have a seat in one of our coaches as soon as the death-rate diminishes, and this odious weather breaks up.”
“Your ladyship is all goodness. I shall go where my lode-star leads,” answered Denzil, looking at Angela, and blushing at the audacity of his speech.
He was one of those modest lovers who rarely bring a blush to the cheek of the beloved object, but are so poor-spirited as to do most of the blushing themselves.