It is enough to
depress any one's spirits to live in a corner like a shrivelled kernel in
a nut.'

'Go away!' exclaimed Phoebe. 'Mervyn! it is her home! It is her own!'

'Well, I never said otherwise,' he answered, rather crossly; 'but you
know very well that it is a farce to talk of her managing the house, or
the estate either. It was bad enough before, but there will be no check
on any one now.'

'I thought you looked after things.'

'Am I to spend my life as a steward? No, if the work is to be in my
hands, I ought to be in possession at once, so as to take my place in the
county as I ought, and cut the City business. The place is a mere
misfortune and encumbrance to her as she is, and she would be ten times
happier at a watering-place.'

'Mervyn, what do you mean? You have all the power and consequence here,
and are fully master of all; but why should not poor mamma live in her
own house?'

'Can't you conceive that a man may have reasons for wishing to be put in
possession of the family place when he can enjoy it, and she can't?
Don't look at me with that ridiculous face. I mean to marry. Now, can't
you see that I may want the house to myself?'

'You are engaged!'

'Not exactly. I am waiting to see my way through the bother.'

'Who is it? Tell me about it, Mervyn.'

'I don't mind telling you, but for your life don't say a word to any one.
I would never forgive you, if you set my Ladies Bannerman and Acton at
me.'

Phoebe was alarmed. She had little hope that their likings would
coincide; his manner indicated defiance of opinion, and she could not but
be averse to a person for whose sake he wished to turn them out. 'Well,'
was all she could say, and he proceeded: 'I suppose you never heard of
Cecily Raymond.'

'Of Moorcroft?' she asked, breathing more freely. 'Sir John's daughter?'

'No, his niece. It is a spooney thing to take up with one's tutor's
daughter, but it can't be helped. I've tried to put her out of my head,
and enter on a more profitable speculation, but it won't work!'

'Is she very pretty--prettier than Lucilla Sandbrook?' asked Phoebe,
unable to believe that any other inducement could attach him.

'Not what you would call pretty at all, except her eyes. Not a bit fit
to make a figure in the world, and a regular little parsoness. That's
the deuce of it. It would be mere misery to her to be taken to London
and made to go into society; so I want to have it settled, f