Kate's heart was beating faster when she returned to Lady Desmond's room than when she left it; there was something of insolence and conscious power in Lord Effingham's manner, that was totally strange and repugnant to her; this short interview with him had recalled all the sore feeling of resentful indignation and wounded pride, that had so galled her on their first meeting, and though she felt, rather than reasoned, that it would be most unwise to disclose the _rencontre_ to Lady Desmond, she was indescribably provoked to think there was any thing like a secret between her and the proud, bold Earl. "Well, dear Kate, how did Lord Effingham take his sentence of banishment?" "He did not take it at all; he said he would ride over every day, to make enquiries in person." "And did he tell you any news?" "No." "He never tells news! How unlike the present race of babblings into which our aristocracy has degenerated." "Why, what does he do?" "Ah, Kate, he is no favourite with you; I see his foreign indifference to unmarried women has prejudiced you." "No, indeed, I neither like nor dislike him, but there is something in his face, and voice, and manner, I could never trust." "Lord Effingham does not pretend to be a pattern man, and certainly he is, when he likes it, a most agreeable member of society," returned Lady Desmond, rather coldly. "But will you answer that note of Lady Elizabeth's, I cannot, of course, dine with her." And Kate perceived, by this sudden change, that her cousin did not like to pursue the subject. True to his word, Lord Effingham rode over every day to make his enquiries for Lady Desmond, in person, and Kate resolutely secluded herself during the few moments of his stay, in her cousin's or her own chamber. One morning the invalid was sufficiently well to receive two or three dear (fine lady) friends. Kate stole away from their gossip, to her an unknown tongue, and established herself on a shady seat, commanding a view of the park, her book lay idly in her hand, and lulled by the hum of the insects, and the gentle rush of the water from one pond to another, she gave herself up to the past. "How poor dear grandpapa would have delighted in this place; how Georgy would have cheered him, and now it is too late!" And the bitterness of sorrow softened for a while in new scenes, and the increased occupation of the last few days, came back all freshly to her mind; every look, every tone of her beloved parent, was recalled with a distinctness that made her heart ache, and the emptiness and aimlessness of her present life stood out vividly before her.