“You think so? Ah, then beauty itself, I suppose, is pure generosity, and we have all the pleasure of it,” said the amused old gentleman; “that is comfortable doctrine, is it not?” And he looked at Marian, who glanced up blushingly, yet with a certain pleasure. He smiled, yet he looked benignant and fatherly; and this was an extremely agreeable view of the matter, and made it much less embarrassing to acknowledge oneself pretty. Marian felt herself indebted to this kind old man.
“And you know no one—not even Mrs Edgerley, I presume?” said the old gentleman. They both interrupted him in haste to correct this, but he only smiled the more, and went on. “Well, I shall be benevolent, and tell you who your neighbours are; but I cannot follow those rapid eyes. Yes, I perceive you have made a good pause for a beginning—that is our pretty hostess’s right honourable papa. Poor Winterbourne! he was sadly clumsy about his business. He is one of those unfortunate men who cannot do a wicked thing without doing it coarsely. You perceive, he is stopping to speak to Lady Theodosia—dear Lady Theodosia, who writes those sweet books! Nature intended she should be merry and vulgar, and art has made her very fine, very sentimental, and full of tears. There is an unfortunate youth wandering alone behind everybody’s back. That is a miserable new poet, whom Mrs Edgerley has deluded hither under the supposition that he is to be the lion of the evening. Poor fellow! he is looking demoniacal, and studying an epigram. Interested in the poet—eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Agnes, with her usual respect; “but we were thinking of ourselves, who were something the same,” she added quickly; for Mr Agar had seen the sudden look which passed between the sisters.
“Something the same! then I am to understand that you are a poet?” said the old gentleman, with his unvarying benignity. “No!—what then? A musician? No; an artist? Come, you puzzle me. I shall begin to suppose you have written a novel if you do not explain.”
The animated face of Agnes grew blank in a moment; she drew farther back, and blushed painfully. Marian immediately drew herself up and stood upon the defensive. “Is it anything wrong to write a novel?” said Marian. Mr Agar turned upon her with his benignant smile.
“It is so, then?” said the old gentleman; “and I have not the least doubt it is an extremely clever novel. But hold! who comes here? Ah, an American! Now we must do our best to talk very brilliantly, for friend Jonathan loves the conversation of distinguished circles. Let me find a seat for you, and do not be angry that I am not an enthusiast in literary matters. We have all our hobbies, and that does not happen to be mine.”
Agnes sat down passively on the chair he brought for her. The poor girl felt grievously ashamed of herself. After all, what was that poor little book, that she should ground such mighty claims upon it? Who cared for the author of Hope Hazlewood? Mr Agar, though he was so kind, did not even care to inquire what book it was, nor showed the smallest curiosity about its name. Agnes was so much cast down that she scarcely noticed the upright figure approaching towards them, carrying an abstracted head high in the air, and very like to run over smaller people; but Mr Agar stepped aside, and Marian touched her sister’s arm. “It is Mr Endicott—look, Agnes!” whispered Marian. Both of them were stirred with sudden pleasure at sight of him; it was a known face in this dazzling wilderness, though it was not a very comely one. Mr Endicott was as much startled as themselves when glancing downward from his lofty altitude, his eye fell upon the beautiful face which had made sunshine even in the shady place of that Yankee young gentleman’s self-admiring breast. The sudden discovery brightened his lofty languor for a moment. He hastened to shake hands with them, so impressively that the pretty lady and her cloud of admirers paused in their flutter of satire and compliment to look on.
“This is a pleasure I was not prepared for,” said Mr Endicott. “I remember that Mr Atheling had an early acquaintance with Viscount Winterbourne—I presume an old hereditary friendship. I am rejoiced to find that such things are, even in this land of sophistication. This is a brilliant scene!”
“Indeed I do not think papa knows Lord Winterbourne,” said Agnes hastily; but her low voice did not reach the ears which had been so far enlightened by Mr Endicott. “Hereditary friendship—old connections of the family; no doubt daughters of some squire in Banburyshire,” said their beautiful neighbour, in a half-offended tone, to one of her especial retainers, who showed strong symptoms of desertion, and had already half-a-dozen times asked Marian’s name. Unfortunate Mr Endicott! he gained a formidable rival by these ill-advised words.
“I find little to complain of generally in the most distinguished circles of your country,” said Mr Endicott. “Your own men of genius may be neglected, but a foreigner of distinction always finds a welcome. This is true wisdom—for by this means we are enabled to carry a good report to the world.”