I remember one fine evening at the latter end of June, that I left the drawing-room and strolled on to the lawn, and seated myself under a fine old oak tree. I wanted Conny to join me, and hoped she would take the hint, or that her mamma would send her with a cigar; for as I have said, Mrs. Hargrave took great pleasure in seeing us together. I made up my mind, if Conny came, to tell her that I loved her. I was suffering at that moment from an access. Everybody knows that love is an intermittent fever, and that the delirium is very powerful at times. I had sat next to her at table; I had said something soft to her, and lo! she had turned her eyes slowly up to mine. Heavens! what did I read there? A sensibility that transported me! Could I question that my unspoken love was recognised and shared? Oh, Eugenio! either hold thy tongue, or agree with me instantly, that the spirit hath a voice which makes itself audible to the spirit of the beloved, albeit no human language is uttered. Of course the eyes can talk. They are faculties given to women to convey thoughts which all the terms and all the definitions in Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary put together, could never express. I had read a profound and inspiring truth in Conny’s eyes. Her tongue could no more have said it than _my_ eyes could have looked it, beautiful and piercing as my poor fat Pauline used to consider them. That truth had sent me to the old oak tree, and now kept me pensively waiting for her to come forth. But her mother came instead. The kind old lady stepped on to the lawn, and seeing me, approached and took a seat at my side. “Why, how is it you are not smoking?” she asked. “The fact is,” I answered, “I--I--to tell you the truth, I don’t know.” “Isn’t this a beautiful evening?” “Beautiful indeed.” “Would you care to go back to Longueville?” she inquired, rather slyly, I thought. I looked her full in the face, and she laughed. “I don’t think you would.” “No, indeed. I am perfectly satisfied to remain where I am.” “Thomas says you are getting on bravely at the bank. I know he is very anxious that you should learn: for he has some scheme for you, which he won’t tell me. You see, wives don’t always know their husbands’ affairs.” “I know he has some scheme, and I am sure it is a generous one. I am getting on--thanks to Mr. Curling, I know a good deal now, though, when I first began, I thought I should never be able to learn the work.” “What do you think of this Mr. Curling? Do you like him?” “I ought to: he deserves that I should.” “Well,” said my aunt, “_I_ don’t. I am sure he is a very sly person, and I dislike slyness in man or woman. When he visited this house he used to pay Conny a great deal of attention, but always in a sly way. In doing so, he took a very great liberty, considering his position in life, although my husband laughs at me, and declares that I troubled myself more than the occasion needed.” “Mr. Curling is certainly no match for Conny,” said I.