called his impertinence, he took
his leave, and I felt altogether very much pleased and flattered.

He could not be more than twenty-nine or thirty, I thought, and he was
decidedly handsome--that is, his eyes and teeth, and clear brown complexion
were--and there was something distinguished and graceful in his figure
and gesture; and altogether there was the indescribable attraction of
intelligence; and I fancied--though this, of course, was a secret--that
from the moment he spoke to us he felt an interest in me. I am not going to
be vain. It was a _grave_ interest, but still an interest, for I could see
him studying my features while I was turning over his sketches, and he
thought I saw nothing else. It was flattering, too, his anxiety that
I should think well of his drawing, and referring me to Lady Knollys.
Carysbroke--had I ever heard my dear father mention that name? I could not
recollect it. But then he was habitually so silent, that his not doing so
argued nothing.

CHAPTER XXXV

_WE VISIT A ROOM IN THE SECOND STOREY_

Mr. Carysbroke amused my fancy sufficiently to prevent my observing Milly's
silence, till we had begun our return homeward.

'The Grange must be a pretty house, if that little sketch be true; is it
far from this?'

''Twill be two mile.'

'Are you vexed, Milly?' I asked, for both her tone and looks were angry.

'Yes, I am vexed; and why not lass?'

'What has happened?'

'Well, now, that is rich! Why, look at that fellow, Carysbroke: he took no
more notice to me than a dog, and kep' talking to you all the time of his
pictures, and his walks, and his people. Why, a pig's better manners than
that.'

'But, Milly dear, you forget, he tried to talk to you, and you would not
answer him,' I expostulated.

'And is not that just what I say--I can't talk like other folk--ladies, I
mean. Every one laughs at me; an' I'm dressed like a show, I am. It's a
shame! I saw Polly Shives--what a lady she is, my eyes!--laughing at me in
church last Sunday. I was minded to give her a bit of my mind. An' I know
I'm queer. It's a shame, it is. Why should _I_ be so rum? it is a shame! I
don't want to be so, nor it isn't my fault.'

And poor Milly broke into a flood of tears, and stamped on the ground, and
buried her face in her short frock, which she whisked up to her eyes; and
an odder figure of grief I never beheld.

'And I could not make head or tail of what he was saying,' cried poor Milly
throug