"I have brought you," said the marquis, who piqued himself on a vein
of dry humour,--"I have brought you, young lady, a consolation for my
ill humours. Few gouty old fathers make themselves as welcome as I
do; eh, Ulswater?"

"Dare I apply to myself Lord Westborough's compliment?" said the young
nobleman, advancing towards Lady Flora; and drawing his seat near her,
he entered into that whispered conversation so significant of
courtship. But there was little in Lady Flora's manner by which an
experienced eye would have detected the bride elect: no sudden blush,
no downcast, yet sidelong look, no trembling of the hand, no
indistinct confusion of the voice, struggling with unanalyzed
emotions. No: all was calm, cold, listless; her cheek changed not
tint nor hue, and her words, clear and collected, seemed to contradict
whatever the low murmurs of her betrothed might well be supposed to
insinuate. But, even in his behaviour, there was something which, had
Lady Westborough been less contented than she was with the externals
and surface of manner, would have alarmed her for her daughter. A
cloud, sullen and gloomy, sat upon his brow; and his lip alternately
quivered with something like scorn, or was compressed with a kind of
stifled passion. Even in the exultation that sparkled in his eye,
when he alluded to their approaching marriage, there was an expression
that almost might have been termed fierce, and certainly was as little
like the true orthodox ardour of "gentle swain," as Lady Flora's sad
and half unconscious coldness resembled the diffident passion of the
"blushing maiden."

"You have considerably passed the time in which we expected you, my
lord," said Lady Westborough, who, as a beauty herself, was a little