miable they are;
but, somehow or other, I can never fancy them the least motherly. What
an ending for a maternal epistle is that elegant compliment--'Songez
que de tons les coeurs ou vous regnez, il n'y en a aucun ou votre
empire soit si bien etabli que dans le mien.'* I can scarcely fancy Lord
Saxingham writing so to you, Lady Florence."

* Think that of all the hearts over which you reign, there is not one in
which your empire can be so well established as in mine.

"No, indeed," replied Lady Florence, smiling. "Neither papas nor
mammas in England are much addicted to compliment; but I confess I
like preserving a sort of gallantry even in our most familiar
connections--why should we not carry the imagination into all the
affections?"

"I can scarce answer the why," returned Cleveland; "but I think it would
destroy the reality. I am rather of the old school. If I had a daughter,
and asked her to get my slippers, I am afraid I should think it a little
wearisome if I had, in receiving them, to make _des belles phrases_ in
return."

While they were thus talking, and Lady Florence continued to press her
side of the question, they passed through a little grove that conducted
to an arm of the stream which ornamented the grounds, and by its quiet
and shadowy gloom was meant to give a contrast to the livelier features
of the domain. Here they came suddenly upon Maltravers. He was walking
by the side of the brook, and evidently absorbed in thought.

It was the trembling of Lady Florence's hand as it lay on Cleveland's
arm, that induced him to stop short in an animated commentary on
Rochefoucauld's character of Cardinal de Retz, and look round.

"Ha, most meditative Jacques!" said he; "and what new moral hast thou
been conning in our Forest of Ardennes?"

"Oh, I am glad to see you; I wished to consult you, Cleveland. But
first, Lady Florence, to convince you and our host that my rambles
have not been wholly fruitless, and that I could not walk from Dan to
Beersheba and find all barren, accept my offering--a wild rose that I
discovered in the thickest part of the wood. It is not a civilised rose.
Now, Cleveland, a word with you."

"And now, Mr. Maltravers, I am _de trop_," said Lady Florence.

"Pardon me, I have no secrets from you in this matter--or rather these
matters; for there are two to be discussed. In the first place, Lady
Florence, that poor Cesarini,--you know and like him--nay, no blushes."

"Did I blush?--