“But why do you not take a holiday—a run to Fiji, San Francisco, Galle, anywhere? All places strange and foreign are equally good for change.”
“Or to the moon,” laughed the young man. “Nearly as much chance of getting to one as the other. However, I will think it over and arrange.”
“Depend upon it, you should not delay. I am something of a physiognomist, and I see reasons for a foreign tour. Why not make an application? Urgent private affairs. They could not be more truthfully described. But here come my young people.”
Mrs. Stamford and her daughters now appeared. With her usual prompt kindness she advanced, upon hearing her husband commence a formal introduction, and held out her hand to the young man.
“You are well known to us by name, Mr. Hope! I have great pleasure, believe me, in making your acquaintance. I trust some day that we may be able to see you at Windāhgil. You will be indeed welcome to our country home.”
Mr. Hope bowed with an air as if disclaiming all title to unusual indulgence, but his eyes strayed from the kind face of the speaker to that of Laura Stamford, to whom, with Linda, he was now presented.
Both these young ladies, in spite of an air of calm repose, were inwardly somewhat agitated at beholding a personage in whose favour they had heard so much. Prone, like most damsels of the romantic age, to invest the probable hero with striking attributes, they had yet fallen short of a correct estimate of Barrington Hope’s appearance. Connecting him in more or less degree with his mercantile profession, they had expected perhaps a look of greater age, a more concentrated regard, or care-encumbered countenance. When therefore they were confronted by one of the best-looking, best-dressed men in the metropolis, separated as to air and manner apparently from any commonplace pecuniary labours, they could hardly believe their eyes.
Linda was inwardly gnashing her teeth, and reproaching the author of her being in that he was such an inefficient hand at description. “Would not any one have imagined, Laura,” she said afterwards, “that Mr. Hope was a hard-headed sort of person, clever at figures and all that, and good to us? And now, quite suddenly we are brought face to face with a magnificent man—the finest man I ever saw in my life. Isn’t it a shame—a crying shame, Laura?”
“Isn’t what a crying shame? That Mr. Hope is asked to dine, or that we couldn’t write and request his photograph before the original burst upon us in all his glory? Do you think you would have liked to behave differently?”
“I am sure I can’t tell. But it was such a surprise. I might have fainted and disgraced myself. But you are such a cold-blooded creature, Laura; I sometimes think you have no heart.”