KENELM did not see either father or mother till he appeared at dinner. Then he was seated next to Cecilia. There was but little conversation between the two; in fact, the prevalent subject of talk was general and engrossing, the interest in Chillingly Gordon’s election; predictions of his success, of what he would do in Parliament. “Where,” said Lady Glenalvon, “there is such a dearth of rising young men, that if he were only half as clever as he is he would be a gain.” “A gain to what?” asked Sir Peter, testily. “To his country? about which I don’t believe he cares a brass button.” To this assertion Leopold Travers replied warmly, and was not less warmly backed by Mrs. Campion. “For my part,” said Lady Glenalvon, in conciliatory accents, “I think every able man in Parliament is a gain to the country; and he may not serve his country less effectively because he does not boast of his love for it. The politicians I dread most are those so rampant in France nowadays, the bawling patriots. When Sir Robert Walpole said, ‘All those men have their price,’ he pointed to the men who called themselves ‘patriots.’” “Bravo!” cried Travers. “Sir Robert Walpole showed his love for his country by corrupting it. There are many ways besides bribing for corrupting a country,” said Kenelm, mildly, and that was Kenelm’s sole contribution to the general conversation. It was not till the rest of the party had retired to rest that the conference, longed for by Kenelm, dreaded by Sir Peter, took place in the library. It lasted deep into the night; both parted with lightened hearts and a fonder affection for each other. Kenelm had drawn so charming a picture of the Fairy, and so thoroughly convinced Sir Peter that his own feelings towards her were those of no passing youthful fancy, but of that love which has its roots in the innermost heart, that though it was still with a sigh, a deep sigh, that he dismissed the thought of Cecilia, Sir Peter did dismiss it; and, taking comfort at last from the positive assurance that Lily was of gentle birth, and the fact that her name of Mordaunt was that of ancient and illustrious houses, said, with half a smile, “It might have been worse, my dear boy. I began to be afraid that, in spite of the teachings of Mivers and Welby, it was ‘The Miller’s Daughter,’ after all. But we still have a difficult task to persuade your poor mother. In covering your first flight from our roof I unluckily put into her head the notion of Lady Jane, a duke’s daughter, and the notion has never got out of it. That comes of fibbing.”