“Being, as you say, a stranger in this sort of society, you see I am not accustomed to—to the exceeding brilliancy of its conversation,” said Clive.
“What! you want to go away, and we haven’t seen each other for near a year!” cries Ethel, in quite a natural voice. “Sir John Fobsby, I’m very sorry—but do let me off this dance. I have just met my cousin, whom I have not seen for a whole year, and I want to talk to him.”
“It was not my fault that you did not see me sooner. I wrote to you that I only got your letter a month ago. You never answered the second I wrote you from Rome. Your letter lay there at the post ever so long, and was forwarded to me at Naples.”
“Where?” asked Ethel.
“I saw Lord Kew there.” Ethel was smiling with all her might, and kissing her hand to the twins, who passed at that moment with their mamma. “Oh, indeed, you saw—how do you do?—Lord Kew.”
“And, having seen him, I came over to England,” said Clive.
Ethel looked at him, gravely. “What am I to understand by that, Clive?—You came over because it was very hot at Naples, and because you wanted to see your friends here, n’est-ce pas? How glad mamma was to see you! You know she loves you as if you were her own son.”
“What, as much as that angel, Barnes!” cries Clive, bitterly; “impossible.”
Ethel looked once more. Her present mood and desire was to treat Clive as a chit, as a young fellow without consequence—a thirteenth younger brother. But in his looks and behaviour there was that which seemed to say not too many liberties were to be taken with him.
“Why weren’t you here a month sooner, and you might have seen the marriage? It was a very pretty thing. Everybody was there. Clara, and so did Barnes really, looked quite handsome.”