“Grace! darling!” called Lord Clonbrony, “whither so fast, before you’ve given me a word or a kiss?”
She came back, and hastily kissed her uncle, who folded her in his arms. “Why must I let you go? And what makes you so pale, my dear child?”
“I am a little, a little tired—I will be with you again soon.”
Her uncle let her go.
“Your famous Buxton baths don’t seem to have agreed with her, by all I can see,” said Lord Clonbrony.
“My lord, the Buxton baths are no way to blame; but I know what is to blame and who is to blame,” said Lady Clonbrony, in a tone of displeasure, fixing her eyes upon her son. “Yes, you may well look confounded, Colambre; but it is too late now—you should have known your own mind in time. I see you have heard it, then—but I am sure I don’t know how; for it was only decided the day I left Buxton. The news could hardly travel faster than I did. Pray how did you hear it?”
“Hear what, ma’am?” said Colambre.
“Why, that Miss Broadhurst is going to be married.”
“All! Now, Lord Colambre, you reelly are too much for my patience. But I flatter myself you will feel, when I tell you that it is your friend, Sir Arthur Berryl, as I always prophesied, who has carried off the prize from you.”
“But for the fear of displeasing my dear mother, I should say, that I do feel sincere pleasure in this marriage—I always wished it: my friend, Sir Arthur, from the first moment, trusted me with the secret of his attachment; he knew that he had my warm good wishes for his success; he knew that I thought most highly of the young lady; but that I never thought of her as a wife for myself.”