CHAPTER XVI. A SECOND DELIVERANCE.
“Stockwell. So, so, you seem disordered, Mr. Belcour.
Belcour. Disordered, sir!
Why did I ever quit the soil in which I grew?”
The West Indian.
For a minute the father of Isidora and I preserved a dignified silence. The stern displeasure his countenance evinced was not encouraging, and I looked the silliest young gentleman imaginable. The contretemps of this evening visit was most provoking. I had never done the sentimental in my life but twice, and on both occasions Mr. Hartley had managed to drop in. Turning his dark and searching eye on mine, he drily inquired, “Whether it would be considered an impertinence on his part, if he asked who the lady might be whom he had very unintentionally put to flight?”
I mentioned her name, not forgetting to announce also the nobility of her descent; but had it been in direct line from Charlemagne or the Conqueror, it would not have propitiated Mr. Hartley, if one could form any opinion from the inauspicious “humph!” with which he received the intelligence.
“And, my good sir, how long have you known this interesting personage?” he continued.