I could
arrange it with my law-partners to be absent a little longer perhaps,
that there might be some little rest and romance about the
wedding-journey.
Two or three times in the course of that morning--for she stayed with
us all the morning--Fanny Meyrick rallied me on my preoccupation and
silence: "He didn't use to be so, Bessie, years ago, I assure you.
It's very disagreeable, sir--not an improvement by any means."
Then--I think without any malice prepense, simply the unreasoning
rattle of a belle of two seasons--she plunged into a description of a
certain fete at Blankkill on the Hudson, the occasion of our first
acquaintance: "He was so young, Bessie, you can't imagine, and blushed
so beautifully that all the girls were jealous as could be. We were
very good friends--weren't we?--all that summer?"
"And are still, I hope," said I with my most sweeping bow. "What have
I done to forfeit Miss Meyrick's esteem?"
"Nothing, except that you used to find your way oftener to Meyrick
Place than you do now. Well, I won't scold you for that: I shall make
up for that on the other side."
What did she mean? She had no other meaning than that she would have
such compensation in English society that her American admirers would
not be missed. She did not know of my going abroad.
But Bessie darted a quick glance from her to me, and back again to
her, as though some dawning suspicion had come to her.
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