ancient orator's sublime conceptions, but laborious training, is the
Preacher's. And I own, George, that I envy the masters who skilled to
the Preacher's art an intellect like yours."

"Masters," said the Colonel. "I thought all those elocution masters
failed with you, George. You cured and taught yourself. Did not you? No!
Why, then, who was your teacher?"

George looked very much embarrassed, and, attempting to answer, began
horribly to stutter.

Darrell, conceiving that a preacher whose fame was not yet confirmed
might reasonably dislike to confess those obligations to elaborate
study, which, if known, might detract from his effect or expose him to
ridicule, hastened to change the subject. "You have been to the country,
I hear, George; at your living, I suppose?"

"No. I have not been there very lately; travelling about."

"Have you seen Lady Montfort since your return?" asked the Colonel.

"I only returned on Saturday night. I go to Lady Montfort's at
Twickenham, this evening."

"She has a delightful retreat," said the Colonel. "But if she wish
to avoid admiration, she should not make the banks of the river her
favourite haunt. I know some romantic admirers, who, when she re-appears
in the world, may be rival aspirants, and who have much taken to rowing
since Lady Montfort has retired to Twickenham. They catch a glimpse of
her, and return to boast of it. But they report that there is a young
lady seen walking with her an extremely pretty one--who is she? People
ask me--as if I knew everything."

"A companion, I suppose," said George, more and more confused. "But,
pardon me, I must leave you now. Good-bye, uncle. Good day, Mr.
Darrell."

Darrell did not seem to observe George take leave, but walked on, his
hat over his brows, lost in one of his frequent fits of abstracted
gloom.

"If my nephew were not married," said the Colonel, "I should regard his
embarrassment with much suspicion--embarrassed at every point, from his
travels about the country to the question of a young lady at Twickenham.
I wonder who that young lady can be--not one of the Viponts, or I
should have heard. Are there any young ladies on the Lyndsay side?--Eh,
Darrell?"

"What do I care?--your head runs on young ladies," answered Darrell,
with peevish vivacity, as he stopped abruptly at Carr Vipont's door.

"And your feet do not seem to run from them," said the Colonel; and,
with an ironical salute, walked away, while the expanding p