“What is your name, and who are you?” she inquired, in a breathless sort of way, that made Hubert look at her a moment in calm astonishment.
“I have told you your friend; christened at some remote period, Hubert. For further particulars, apply to the Earl of Rochester, whose page I am.”
“The Earl of Rochester's page!” she repeated, in the same quick, excited way, that surprised and rather lowered her in that good youth's opinion, for giving way to any feelings so plebeian. “It is—it must be the same!”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Hubert. “The same what?”
“Did you not come from France—from Dijon, recently?” went on Leoline, rather inappositely, as it struck her hearer.
“Certainly I came from Dijon. Had I the honor of being known to you there?”
“How strange! How wonderful!” said Leoline, with a paling cheek and quickened breathing. “How mysterious those things turn out I Thank Heaven that I have found some one to love at last!”
This speech, which was Greek, algebra, high Dutch, or thereabouts, to Master Hubert, caused him to stare to such an extent, that when he came to think of it afterward, positively shocked him. The two great, wondering dark eyes transfixing her with so much amazement, brought Leoline to a sense of her talking unfathomable mysteries, quite incomprehensible to her handsome auditor. She looked at him with a smile, held out her hand; and Hubert received a strange little electric thrill, to see that her eyes were full of tears. He took the hand and raised it to his lips, wondering if the young lady, struck by his good looks, had conceived a rash and inordinate attack of love at first sight, and was about to offer herself to him and discard Sir Norman for ever. From this speculation, the sweet voice aroused him.
“You have told me who you are. Now, do you know who I am?”
“I hope so, fairest Leoline. I know you are the most beautiful lady in England, and to-morrow will be called Lady Kingsley!”