les, meditatively, gazing up into the blue of the summer sky.

The mixed impiety and indelicacy of her nephew's remark caused a sudden
twitch to the High Church embroidery in Lady Mary's hand; but she went
on a moment later in her usual tone:

"And Lady Hope-Acton. Is she in stronger health?"

"I believe she was fairly well; not robust, you know, but, like other
fond mothers with daughters out, 'faint yet pursuing.'"

Lady Mary bit her lip; but long experience had taught her that it was
wiser to refrain from reproof, even when it was so urgently needed.

"And their daughter, Lady Grace. How beautiful she is! Was she looking
as lovely as usual?"

"More so," replied Charles, with conviction. "Her nose is even
straighter, her eyelashes even longer than they were last summer. I do
not hesitate to say that her complexion is--all that her fancy paints
it."

"You are so fond of joking, Charles, that I don't know when you are
serious. And you saw a good deal of her?"

"Of course I did. I leaned on the railings in the Row, and watched her
riding with Lord Hope-Acton, whose personal appearance you feel such an
interest in. At the meeting of the four-in-hands, was not she on the
box-seat beside me? At Henley, were we not in the same boat? At
Hurlingham, did we not watch polo together, and together drink our tea?
At Lord's, did not I tear her new muslin garment in helping her up one
of those poultry-ladders on the Torringtons' drag? Have I not taken her
in to dinner five several times? Have I not danced with her at balls
innumerable? Have I not, in fact, seen as much of her as--of several
others?"

"Oh, Charles!" said Lady Mary, "I wish you would talk seriously for one
moment, and not in that light way. Have you spoken?"

"In a light way, I should say I had spoken a good deal; but _seriously_,
no. I have never ventured to be serious."

"But you will be. After all this, you _will_ ask her?"

"Aunt Mary," replied Charles, with gentle reproach, "a certain delicacy
should be observed in probing the exact state of a man's young
affections. At five-and-thirty (I know I am five-and-thirty, because you
have told people so for the last three years) there exists a certain
reticence in the youthful heart which declines to lay bare its inmost
feelings even for an aunt to--we won't say peck at, but speculate upon.
I have told you all I know. I have done what I was bidden to do, up to a
certain point. I am now here to recruit, and