Cesarini groaned. “You are ill,” continued Ferrers; “the air will revive you--come.” He glided from the room, and the Italian mechanically followed him. They walked together for some moments in silence, side by side, in a clear, lovely, moonlight night. At length Ferrers said, “Pardon me, my dear signor, but you may already have observed that I am a very frank, odd sort of fellow. I see you are caught by the charms of my cruel cousin. Can I serve you in any way?” A man at all acquainted with the world in which we live would have been suspicious of such cordiality in the cousin of an heiress, towards a very unsuitable aspirant. But Cesarini, like many indifferent poets (but like few good ones), had no common sense. He thought it quite natural that a man who admired his poetry so much as Lumley had declared he did, should take a lively interest in his welfare; and he therefore replied warmly, “Oh, sir, this is indeed a crushing blow: I dreamed she loved me. She was ever flattering and gentle when she spoke to me, and in verse already I had told her of my love, and met with no rebuke.” “Did your verses really and plainly declare love, and in your own person?” “Why, the sentiment was veiled, perhaps--put into the mouth of a fictitious character, or conveyed in an allegory.” “Oh,” ejaculated Ferrers, thinking it very likely that the gorgeous Florence, hymned by a thousand bards, had done little more than cast a glance over the lines that had cost poor Cesarini such anxious toil, and inspired him with such daring hope. “Oh!--and to-night she was more severe--she is a terrible coquette, _la belle Florence_! But perhaps you have a rival.” “I feel it--I saw it--I know it.” “Whom do you suspect?” “That accursed Maltravers! He crosses me in every path--my spirit quails beneath his whenever we encounter. I read my doom.” “If it be Maltravers,” said Ferrers, gravely, “the danger cannot be great. Florence has seen but little of him, and he does not admire her much; but she is a great match, and he is ambitious. We must guard against this betimes, Cesarini--for know that I dislike Maltravers as much as you do, and will cheerfully aid you in any plan to blight his hopes in that quarter.” “Generous, noble friend!--yet he is richer, better-born than I.” “That may be: but to one in Lady Florence’s position, all minor grades of rank in her aspirants seem pretty well levelled. Come, I don’t tell you that I would not sooner she married a countryman and an equal--but I have taken a liking to you, and I detest Maltravers. She is very romantic--fond of poetry to a passion--writes it herself, I fancy. Oh, you’ll just suit her; but, alas! how will you see her?” “See her! What mean you?” “Why, have you not declared love to-night? I thought I overheard you. Can you for a moment fancy that, after such an avowal, Lady Florence will again receive you--that is, if she mean to reject your suit?” “Fool that I was! But no--she must, she shall.”