Mr. Lovel came strolling in by-and-by, with his favourite tan setter, looking as cool as if there were no such thing as blazing midsummer sunshine, and found the two ladies sauntering up and down the grassy walk by the mill-stream, under the shadow of gnarled old pear and quince trees. He was charmed to see his dear Lady Laura. Clarissa had never known him so enthusiastic or so agreeable. It was quite a new manner which he put on—the manner of a man who is still interested in life. Lady Laura began almost at once with her reproaches. How could he be so cruel to this dear child? How could he be so absurd as to bury her alive in this way?
"She visits no one, I hear," cried the lady; "positively no one."
"Humph! she has been complaining, has she?" said Mr. Lovel, with a sharp glance at his daughter.
"Complaining! O no, papa! I have told Lady Laura that I do not care about gaiety, and that you do not allow me to visit."
"Aut Caesar aut nullus—the best or nothing. I don't want Clarissa to be gadding about to all the tea-drinkings in Holborough; and if I let her go to one house, I must let her go to all."
"But you will let her come to me?"
"That is the best, my dear Lady Laura. Yes, of course she may come to you, whenever you may please to be troubled with her."
"Then I please to be troubled with her immediately. I should like to carry her away with me this afternoon, if it were possible; but I suppose that can't be—there will be a trunk to be packed, and so on. When will you come to me, Miss Lovel? Do you know, I am strongly tempted to call you Clarissa?"
"I should like it so much better," the girl answered, blushing.
"What! may I? Then I'm sure I will. It's such a pretty name, reminding one of that old novel of Richardson's, which everybody quotes and no one ever seems to have read. When will you come, Clarissa?"