Cecilia compliantly offered him a sketch of the Scandinavian Troll: much nearer the mark, he thought, and exclaimed: “Baron Troll! I’m afraid, Cecilia, you have robbed him of the best part of his fun. And you will owe it entirely to him if you should be represented in Parliament by my cousin Baskelett.” “Promise me, Nevil, that you will, when you meet Captain Baskelett, not forget I did you some service, and that I wish, I shall be so glad if you do not resent certain things.... Very objectionable, we all think.” He released her from the embarrassing petition: “Oh! now I know my man, you may be sure I won’t waste a word on him. The fact is, he would not understand a word, and would require more—and that I don’t do. When I fancied Mr. Austin was the responsible person, I meant to speak to him.” Cecilia smiled gratefully. The sweetness of a love-speech would not have been sweeter to her than this proof of civilized chivalry in Nevil. They came to the fir-heights overlooking Bevisham. Here the breezy beginning of a South-western autumnal gale tossed the ponies’ manes and made threads of Cecilia’s shorter locks of beautiful auburn by the temples and the neck, blustering the curls that streamed in a thick involution from the silken band gathering them off her uncovered clear-swept ears. Beauchamp took an impression of her side face. It seemed to offer him everything the world could offer of cultivated purity, intelligent beauty and attractiveness; and “Wilt thou?” said the winged minute. Peace, a good repute in the mouths of men, home, and a trustworthy woman for mate, an ideal English lady, the rarest growth of our country, and friends and fair esteem, were offered. Last night he had waltzed with her, and the manner of this tall graceful girl in submitting to the union of the measure and reserving her individual distinction, had exquisitely flattered his taste, giving him an auspicious image of her in partnership, through the uses of life. He looked ahead at the low dead-blue cloud swinging from across channel. What could be the riddle of Renée’s letter! It chained him completely. “At all events, I shall not be away longer than three days,” he said; paused, eyed Cecilia’s profile, and added, “Do we differ so much?” “It may not be so much as we think,” said she. “But if we do!” “Then, Nevil, there is a difference between us.” “But if we keep our lips closed?” “We should have to shut our eyes as well!” A lovely melting image of her stole over him; all the warmer for her unwittingness in producing it: and it awakened a tenderness toward the simple speaker. Cecilia’s delicate breeding saved her from running on figuratively. She continued: “Intellectual differences do not cause wounds, except when very unintellectual sentiments are behind them:—my conceit, or your impatience, Nevil? ‘_Noi veggiam come quei, che ha mala luce._’... I can confess my sight to be imperfect: but will you ever do so?”