in the least!), but she had gone off somewhere, I dare say
with Tom Cleaveland; so I offered my arm to that same sentimental Miss
Chesney who had bored me into a _valse a deux temps_ the night of the
theatricals, and I have no doubt her mamma contemplated her as Mrs.
Wilmot, of Wilmot Park, with very great gratification and security.
Becoming rather tired of the young lady's hackneyed style of
conversation, which consisted, as usual, of large notes of exclamation
about "the _sweet_ nightingales!" "the _dear_ ruins!" "the _darling_
flowers!" &c. &c., I managed to exchange with another sub, and strolled
off by myself.

As I was leaning against an old wall in no very amiable frame of mind,
consigning all young ladies to no very delightful place, and returning
to my old conclusion that they were all tarlatan and coquetry, soft
musical voices on the other side of the wall fell almost unconsciously
on my ear.

"Oh! Florence, I am so unhappy!"

"Are you, darling? I wish I could help you. Is it about Cyril Graham?"

"Yes!" with a tremendous sigh. "I am afraid papa, and I am sure mamma,
will never consent. I know poor dear Cyril is not rich, but then he is
so clever, he will soon make himself known. But if that tiresome Fred
Wilmot should propose, I know they will want me to accept him." (There
is one thing, I never, _never will_!) "I do snub him as much as ever I
can, but he is such a puppy, I believe he thinks I am in love with
him--as if Cyril, were not worth twenty such as he, for all he is the
owner of Wilmot Park!"

Very pleasant this was! What a fool I must have made of myself to Mary
Aspeden, and how nice it was to hear one's self called "a puppy!"

"Of course, dear," resumed Florence, "as you love Cyril, it is
impossible for you to love any one ever again; but I do not think Mr.
Wilmot a puppy. He is conceited, to be sure, but I do not believe he
would be so much liked by--by those who are his friends, if he were not
rather nice. Come, dear, cheer up. I am sure uncle Aspeden is too kind
not to let you marry Cyril when he knows how much you love one another.
_I_ will talk to him, Mary dear, and bring him round, see if I do not!
But--but--will you think me _very_ selfish if I tell you"--(a long
pause)--"he has asked me--I mean--he wishes--he told me--he says he does
love me!"

"Who, darling? Let me think--Lord Athum?--Mr. Grant?"

"No, Mary--Drummond--that is, Captain Fane--he said----Oh, Mary, I am so
happy!"