absolutely using a
little force as he disengaged himself. Then he at once followed the
ladies upstairs, passing the poet on the stairs. "You have hardly
spoken to me," he whispered to Isabel. He knew that to whisper to her
now, with the eyes of many upon him, with the ears of many open, was
an absurdity; but he could not refrain himself.

"There are so many to be,--entertained, as people say! I don't think
I ought to have to entertain you," she answered, laughing. No one
heard her but Silverbridge, yet she did not seem to whisper. She left
him, however, at once, and was soon engaged in conversation with Sir
Timothy.

A convivial lunch I hold to be altogether bad, but the worst of its
many evils is that vacillating mind which does not know when to take
its owner off. Silverbridge was on this occasion quite determined not
to take himself off at all. As it was only a lunch the people must
go, and then he would be left with Isabel. But the vacillation of the
others was distressing to him. Mr. Lupton went, and poor Dolly got
away apparently without a word. But the Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds
would not go, and the poet sat staring immovably. In the meanwhile
Silverbridge endeavoured to make the time pass lightly by talking to
Mrs. Boncassen. He had been so determined to accept Isabel with all
her adjuncts that he had come almost to like Mrs. Boncassen, and
would certainly have taken her part violently had any one spoken ill
of her in his presence.

Then suddenly he found that the room was nearly empty. The Beeswaxes
and the Gotobeds were gone; and at last the poet himself, with a
final glare of admiration at Isabel, had taken his departure. When
Silverbridge looked round, Isabel also was gone. Then too Mrs.
Boncassen had left the room suddenly. At the same instant Mr.
Boncassen entered by another door, and the two men were alone
together. "My dear Lord Silverbridge," said the father, "I want to
have a few words with you." Of course there was nothing for him but
to submit. "You remember what you said to me down at Matching?"

"Oh yes; I remember that."

"You did me the great honour of expressing a wish to make my child
your wife."

"I was asking for a very great favour."

"That also;--for there is no greater favour I could do to any man
than to give him my daughter. Nevertheless, you were doing me a great
honour,--and you did it, as you do everything, with an honest grace
that went far to win my heart. I am not at all