"Slightly, George; and there was a delicacy in the tinting of her skin-- liliaceous, I might say, but she was not pale."

"Bravo, dear! That's a capital word. Do for a Tennysonian poem--'the Lay of the Liliaceous Lady.'"

"I was speaking seriously, my dear," said Mrs Canninge stiffly. "I beg that you will not make those absurd remarks."

"Certainly not, dear; but liliaceous is not a serious way of speaking of a lady."

"Then I will not use it, George, for I wish to speak to you very seriously about Beatrice Lambent."

The young man winced a little, but said nothing. He merely rustled his newspaper and a.s.sumed an air of attention.

"I don't think that dear Beatrice is well, George."

"Tell Lambent to send her off to the seaside for a good blow."

"To pine away and grow worse, George."

"To the interior, then, mother."

"To still pine away, George."

"Try homeopathy, then. Like cures like. Send her into Surrey amongst the fir-trees--pine to cure pine."

Mrs Canninge sipped her coffee.

"Or get Miss Penstemon to give her a few pilules out of one of her bottles--the one she selected when I came down on the Czar last year at that big hedge."

"When you have ended your badinage, my dear son, I shall be ready to go on."

"Done. Finis!" said George Canninge promptly.

"I have been noting the change in dear Beatrice for some time past."

"I have not," said the young man. "She always was very thin and genteel-looking."

"Extremely, George; but of late there has been a subdued sadness--a pained look in her pensive eyes, that troubles me a good deal, for it is bad."

"Perhaps she has some trouble on her mind, dear. You should try and comfort her."

"_I_ could not comfort her, my dear. The comfort must come from other lips than mine. Hers is a mental grief."

"Why, you don't mean to say that she is in love?" said George Canninge, laughing.

"I mean to say that the poor girl is suffering cruelly from a feeling of neglect, and it grieves me very, very much."

"Send the swain for whom she sighs to comfort her, my dear mamma."

"That is what I am seeking to do, George," said the lady, looking at him meaningly. "Don't you think it is time you threw off this indifference, and ceased to trifle? You are giving pain to a true, sweet woman."

"I! I giving pain to a true, sweet woman? Absurd! My dearest mother, do you for a moment suppose that I ever thought seriously about Beatrice Lambent?"

"It has been one of my cherished hopes that you did, George, and I know that she feels your cool indifference most keenly."

"Nonsense, dear!" he cried, laughing; "why, what crotchet is this that you have got into your head?"

"Crotchet?"

"Yes, dear--crotchet."

"I am speaking in all seriousness to you, my son. George, your behaviour to Beatrice Lambent is not correct."

"My dear mother," said the young man firmly, "do you mean to tell me that you honestly believe Beatrice Lambent cares for me?"

"Most a.s.suredly, George."

"Poor la.s.s, then! That's all I can say."

"Why, George, have you not led her on by your attentions for these many months past?"

"Certainly not! I have been as civil and attentive to her as I have been to other ladies--that is all. What nonsense! Really, mother, it is absurd."

"It is not absurd, George, but a very serious matter."

"Well, serious enough, of course, for I should be sorry if Miss Lambent suffered under a misunderstanding."

"Why let it be a misunderstanding, George? Beatrice is handsome."

"Ye-es," said the young man, gazing down at his paper.

"Well born."

"I suppose so."

"Thoroughly intellectual."

"Let's see: it's Byron, isn't it, who makes 'hen-pecked-you-all' rhyme to 'intellectual'?"

"George!"

"My dear mother."

"Beatrice is amiable; has a good portion from her late uncle--in fact, taken altogether, a most eligible _partie_, and I like her very much."

"But, my dear mother," said the young squire, "it is a question of my marriage, is it not?"

"Of course, my son."

"Then it would be necessary for me to like her as well--from my commonplace point of view, to love her."