Mrs. Walford didn't evince any signs of perturbation, however, when they rejoined her, nor did she ask for particulars of what they had seen. She seemed to think it likely that they might not feel talkative. She said that she had "enjoyed it all immensely," sitting there in the shade, and that the gardien, who had come back to her, had imparted the most romantic facts about the château. Around some of them she was convinced that Mr. Kent could easily write an historical novel, which she was sure would be deeply interesting, though she never read historical novels herself. Had Mr. Kent and Cynthia any idea of the quantity of pippins grown in the immediate neighbourhood every summer? The gardien had told her that as well. No; it had nothing to do with the château, but it was simply extraordinary, and the bulk of the fruit was converted into cider, and the peasantry got it for nothing. Cider for nothing must be so very nice for them when they couldn't afford the wine, and she had no doubt that it was much more wholesome too, though, personally, she had tasted cider only once, and then it had made her ill. They drove down the dusty hill listening to her. The girl spoke scarcely at all, and the onus of appearing entertained devolved upon Kent. When the fiacre deposited them at the hotel at last, he drew a sigh in which relief and apprehension mingled. Cynthia followed her mother upstairs, and he caught a glance from her, and smiled his gratitude; but he questioned inwardly what would be the upshot of the announcement that she was about to make. He perceived with some amusement that he was on the verge of an experience of whose terrors he had often read. He was a candidate for a young lady's hand. Yes, it made one nervous. He asked himself for the twentieth time in the past few days if he had been mistaken in supposing that Mrs. Walford over-estimated his eligibility; perhaps he was no worse off than she thought? But even then he quaked, for he had seen too little society since he was a boy to be versed in such matters, and he was by no means ready to make an affidavit that she had encouraged him. What _was_ "encouragement"? A signal at the entrance to the dining-room was exciting but obscure, and there was no opportunity for inquiries before the ladies took their seats. He anathematised an epergne which to-night seemed more than usually obstructive. Cynthia was in white. He did not remember having seen her in the gown before, and the glimpse of her queenliness shook him. No mother would accord to him so peerless a treasure--he had been mad! It was interminable, this procession of courses, relieved by glances at a profile down the table. His mouth was dry, and he ordered champagne to raise his pluck. It heated him, without steadying his nerves. The room was like a Turkish bath; yet the curve of cheek that he descried was as pale as the corsage. How could she manage it? He himself was bedewed with perspiration.