The critic in her ear had pounced on his repetition of certain words that betrayed a dialectical stiffness and hinted a narrow vocabulary: his use of emphasis, rather reminding her of his uncle Everard, was, in a young man, a little distressing. “The _apathy_ of the country, papa; the _apathy_ of the rich; a state of universal _apathy_. Will you inform me, papa, what the Tories are _doing?_ Do we really give our consciences to the keeping of the parsons once a week, and let them _dogmatize_ for us to save us from exertion? We must attach ourselves to _principles; nothing_ is _permanent_ but _principles_. Poor Nevil! And still I am sure you have, as I have, the feeling that one must respect him. I am quite convinced that he supposes he is doing his best to serve his country by trying for Parliament, fancying himself a Radical. I forgot to ask him whether he had visited his great-aunt, Mrs. Beauchamp. They say the dear old lady has influence with him.” “I don’t think he’s been anywhere,” Colonel Halkett half laughed at the quaint fellow. “I wish the other great-nephew of hers were in England, for us to run him against Nevil Beauchamp. He’s touring the world. I’m told he’s orthodox, and a tough debater. We have to take what we can get.” “My best wishes for your success, and you and I will not talk of politics any more, papa. I hope Nevil will come often, for his own good; he will meet his own set of people here. And if he should dogmatize so much as to rouse our apathy to denounce his principles, we will remember that we are British, and can be sweet-blooded in opposition. Perhaps he may change, even _tra le tre ore a le quattro:_ electioneering should be a lesson. From my recollection of Blackburn Tuckham, he was a boisterous boy.” “He writes uncommonly clever letters home to his aunt Beauchamp. She has handed them to me to read,” said the colonel. “I do like to see tolerably solid young fellows: they give one some hope of the stability of the country.” “They are not so interesting to study, and not half so amusing,” said Cecilia. Colonel Halkett muttered his objections to the sort of amusement furnished by firebrands. “Firebrand is too strong a word for poor Nevil,” she remonstrated. In that estimate of the character of Nevil Beauchamp, Cecilia soon had to confess that she had been deceived, though not by him. CHAPTER XVII. HIS FRIEND AND FOE Looking from her window very early on a Sunday morning, Miss Halkett saw Beauchamp strolling across the grass of the park. She dressed hurriedly and went out to greet him, smiling and thanking him for his friendliness in coming. He said he was delighted, and appeared so, but dashed the sweetness. “You know I can’t canvass on Sundays!” “I suppose not,” she replied. “Have you walked up from Bevisham? You must be tired.” “Nothing tires me,” said he. With that they stepped on together.