“My mother wished for a copy of this picture,” said Lady Elizabeth, in a tremulous voice, and without raising her eyes, “for we have none but a vile daub of him at Pembroke.”
“Perhaps my aunt Pembroke would be so good to accept of the original?” said Colonel Hungerford; “and my mother would beg of Lady Elizabeth to give her copy to—our gallery.”
“Do, my dear Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Hungerford. Lady Elizabeth shook her head, yet smiled.
“Do, my dear; you cannot refuse your cousin.”
“Cousin! there’s hope still,” thought Rosamond.
“If it were but worthy of his acceptance,” said Lady Elizabeth.—Colonel Hungerford, lost in the enjoyment of her self-timidity and retiring grace, quite forgot to say how much he thought the picture worthy of his acceptance.
His mother spoke for him.
“Since Hungerford asks you for it, my dear, you may be certain that he thinks highly of it, for my son never flatters.”
“Who? I!—flatter!” cried Colonel Hungerford; “flatter!” added he, in a low voice, with a tenderness of accent and look, which could scarcely be misunderstood. Nor was it misunderstood by Lady Elizabeth, as her quick varying colour showed. It was well that, at this moment, no eye turned upon Rosamond, for all her thoughts and feeling would have been read in her face.
“Come,” cried Lady Mary, “let us have the picture in its place directly—come all of you to the gallery, fix where it shall be hung.” Colonel Hungerford seized upon it, and following Lady Elizabeth, accompanied Lady Mary to the gallery. Mrs. Hungerford rose deliberately—Caroline offered her arm.