been a dandy,
and had never rejoiced in a fine waistcoat--a criminal possession that
he well knew would have entirely hardened his uncle's conscience
against him. He tarried in his room till the second bell summoned him to
descend; and then, entering the drawing-room, which had a cold look
even in July, found his uncle standing by the mantelpiece, and a young,
slight, handsome woman, half-buried in a huge but not comfortable
_fauteuil_.

"Your aunt, Mrs. Templeton; madam, my nephew, Mr. Lumley Ferrers," said
Templeton, with a wave of the hand.

"John,--dinner!"

"I hope I am not late!"

"No," said Templeton, gently, for he had always liked his nephew, and
began now to thaw towards him a little on seeing that Lumley put a good
face upon the new state of affairs.

"No, my dear boy--no; but I think order and punctuality cardinal virtues
in a well-regulated family."

"Dinner, sir," said the butler, opening the folding-doors at the end of
the room.

"Permit me," said Lumley, offering his arm to his aunt. "What a lovely
place this is!"

Mrs. Templeton said something in reply, but what it was Ferrers could
not discover, so low and choked was the voice.

"Shy," thought he: "odd for a widow! but that's the way those
husband-buriers take us in!"

Plain as was the general furniture of the apartment, the natural
ostentation of Mr. Templeton broke out in the massive value of the
plate, and the number of the attendants. He was a rich man, and he
was proud of his riches: he knew it was respectable to be rich, and he
thought it was moral to be respectable. As for the dinner, Lumley knew
enough of his uncle's tastes to be prepared for viands and wines that
even he (fastidious gourmand as he was) did not despise.

Between the intervals of eating, Mr. Ferrers endeavoured to draw his
aunt into conversation, but he found all his ingenuity fail him. There
was, in the features of Mrs. Templeton, an expression of deep but
calm melancholy, that would have saddened most persons to look upon,
especially in one so young and lovely. It was evidently something beyond
shyness or reserve that made her so silent and subdued, and even in
her silence there was so much natural sweetness, that Ferrers could not
ascribe her manner to haughtiness or the desire to repel. He was rather
puzzled; "for though," thought he, sensibly enough, "my uncle is not a
youth, he is a very rich fellow; and how any widow, who is married again
to a rich old fe