with Gordon,
and walked off to Mivers, who was to give him luncheon and then
accompany him to the station. Sir Peter was to return to Exmundham by
the afternoon express.

Left alone, Gordon indulged in one of those luxurious guesses into the
future which form the happiest moments in youth when so ambitious as
his. The sum Sir Peter placed at his disposal would insure his entrance
in Parliament. He counted with confidence on early successes there. He
extended the scope of his views. With such successes he might calculate
with certainty on a brilliant marriage, augmenting his fortune, and
confirming his position. He had previously fixed his thoughts on Cecilia
Travers. I will do him the justice to say not from mercenary motives
alone, but not certainly with the impetuous ardour of youthful love. He
thought her exactly fitted to be the wife of an eminent public man, in
person, acquirement, dignified yet popular manners. He esteemed her, he
liked her, and then her fortune would add solidity to his position. In
fact, he had that sort of rational attachment to Cecilia which wise men,
like Lord Bacon and Montaigne, would commend to another wise man seeking
a wife. What opportunities of awaking in herself a similar, perhaps a
warmer, attachment the visit to Exmundham would afford! He had learned
when he had called on the Traverses that they were going thither, and
hence that burst of family sentiment which had procured the invitation
to himself.

But he must be cautious, he must not prematurely awaken Travers's
suspicions. He was not as yet a match that the squire could approve of
for his heiress. And, though he was ignorant of Sir Peter's designs
on that, young lady, he was much too prudent to confide his own to a
kinsman of whose discretion he had strong misgivings. It was enough for
him at present that way was opened for his own resolute energies. And
cheerfully, though musingly, he weighed its obstacles, and divined its
goal, as he paced his floor with bended head and restless strides, now
quick, now slow.

Sir Peter, in the meanwhile, found a very good luncheon prepared for
him at Mivers's rooms, which he had all to himself, for his host never
"spoilt his dinner and insulted his breakfast" by that intermediate
meal. He remained at his desk writing brief notes of business, or
of pleasure, while Sir Peter did justice to lamb cutlets and grilled
chicken. But he looked up from his task, with raised eyebrows, when
Sir Pete