'Dear me—I fancied you quite young,' responds his companion with a simper; and lapses again into silence after the effort.
'Politics!' says Uncle Charlie, going back to the subject, after he has desired the butler to take several different dishes to Miss Lobin. 'How you must have enjoyed yourselves—especially Cissy. I never met any woman with such keen and comprehensive views on all matters connected with the state. It was only yesterday I asked her opinion of Gladstone, and she told me she always thought he was'——
'Now—Uncle Charlie,' interrupts Miss Mordaunt with such indignation, that the old gentleman, though chuckling to himself, audibly refuses all further information.
'May we not hear your opinion of Gladstone?' demands Sir Thomas, who is an old beau, and much addicted to Miss Mordaunt.
'Certainly not. And remember I distinctly forbid you to ask Uncle Charlie any questions when my back is turned; as he is capable of saying anything once my eye is off him.'
'Your will is my law,' says the old beau with a bow that would have reflected credit on a Chesterfield; and shortly afterwards, at a signal from Aunt Isabel, the ladies rising, leave the gentlemen to their own devices.
On entering the drawing-room, Mrs Leyton walking with the undulating graceful motion that belongs to her, and that cannot be acquired, goes straight to the fireplace, where she sinks into a lounging-chair, leaving the opposite one for Aunt Isabel, who almost instantly falls into a gentle doze. Little Miss Millar, the vicar's daughter, losing sight of her shyness in her desire to obtain her object, seeks a resting-place that will enable her still to keep a fascinated watch over Mrs Leyton, the widow having cast a glamour over the timid country maiden. The Misses Brighton and Grace Elton keep up a continual chatter, and are evidently enjoying themselves immensely; while Miss Lobin taking the cosy corner of the sofa, emulates her hostess, and letting her face lengthen until it reaches a state of utter imbecility, sweetly snoozes.
Cissy is standing in one of the windows, somewhat apart; she gazes out upon the stilly night, and softly cogitates. She cannot quite make up her mind whether she has been most sinned against or sinning; she cannot wholly approve her conduct at dinner, and finds it impossible to divest herself entirely of the idea that Halkett was looking miserable the entire time. But all men make a point of appearing injured when placed in the wrong position, and of course he had not liked her cross-examination of the morning. Yet again, why should he not receive presents from women? What right had she to question act or word of his? No matter what thoughts and hopes she may have encouraged in the secret recesses of her heart, she feels now she has no certain data to go upon to prove that Halkett cares for her beyond all others. Somebody—who was it?—had said he was a flirt. Well, one thing was positive—he should not flirt with her.
Here Aunt Isabel, slowly rousing, sneezes, and hems audibly, to let her friends know she has not been sleeping.
'Cissy, child,' she says, 'you will be perished over there. Come to the fire and warm yourself.'