But to return to ——. Mr. Forrester knew that Miss Oriel was expected to arrive there on a certain morning, and, as he had gone down several days previous, he was, of course, on the watch for her. Most impassioned admirers would have rushed out to welcome the object of their thoughts at the very first glimpse of her green veil. But Cecil was no vulgar lover, his taste was excessively refined, and for his own sake, no less than out of regard to the lady’s feelings, he did not choose to behold her in travelling dishabille after a long and dusty ride. He therefore contented himself with watching from an upper window her descent from the stage coach, and then retired to his apartment until the preparatory dinner-bell should summon the _élite_ to the saloon. As I have said before, the day was excessively warm, and all the ventilators (which had been mercifully placed over each door to prevent suffocation) stood wide open, as if the rooms, like their heated occupants, were gasping for breath. Cecil, who had a tolerably correct notion of comfort, had loosed his boot-straps, unbraced his stays, and flung himself upon the bed to indulge a pleasant reverie before he commenced his toilet, when he was suddenly recalled to the scenes of actual life by the sound of a well-known voice. The apartments to which Miss Oriel and her mother had been conducted (the privilege of selection would be a most unheard-of innovation of the rights of hotel-keepers at such a season) happened to be immediately opposite to the one already occupied by Mr. Forrester. The ventilators of both were open, and, as he heard her voice, he felt a sweet satisfaction in the thought, that the soft southern breeze which was cooling his brow also fanned the ringlets of his beautiful mistress. But really there was no excuse for his listening to her conversation; it was most ungentlemanlike, but at the same time, I am sorry to say, most natural; and though heartily ashamed of him for so doing, I am obliged to confess that he paid the closest attention to every word of their discourse. “How long do you want to stay here, Laura?” said the mother, in that wheezing sort of voice which belongs to fat, pursy old ladies when over-fatigued. “That will depend upon circumstances,” was the short and rather crusty reply. “Do you know they charge twelve dollars a week, and every bath is an extra expense?” “What of that? We must risk something in all speculations, and mine is a pretty safe venture.” “I wish we had left Ellen Grey at home.” “I don’t agree with you; we owe her some return for staying nearly three months with her at Norwood, and I cannot bear to be under an obligation to such mighty good sort of people, for they never forget it.” “But her board will be expensive, and I do not see why it would not have been as well to invite her to our house in the winter.”