This was a little duel, though neither suspected the object of the other. Lady William was eager to find out from Leo what ‘the family’ had intended to do by sending that messenger, and Leo was eager to persuade Lady William to confide in him, to show him what her difficulty was, and how far the broken revelations of his mother’s attack upon her were true. But neither ventured to unravel the motive which was foremost in their minds. Both endeavoured to extract the information which the other had no intention of revealing. But to the spectators who were looking on, the two people on the bench, who were in reality thus resisting and eluding each other, had an air of great and tender intimacy as they sat together, each turned towards the other, pursuing their mutual investigations by the study, not only of what was said, but what was looked, by the betrayals of the eyes as well as of the tongue. Even Mab, returning from her long talk with old George the boatman, was a little struck by the absorbed attention of Leo to her mother, and of her mother to Leo. With what interest they were talking; seeing no one else that was near; paying no attention to anything that passed! Lady William was not wont to lose herself thus in conversation. She had always an eye for what was going on; for the passing boats on the river, or even for the clouds and brightness of the sky--and much more for her little girl who was hanging about anxious to join her, yet daunted a little by this too animated, too eager talk. Mab had heard a stray word here and there on the subject of Leo Swinford and his visits, to which she had paid no attention, but such words will sometimes linger without any desire of hers in a little girl’s ear. XXXIX ‘I asked old George to go to your fandango, Jim, and he said he would, and take another man or two. He said he’d like to hear the young ladies sing, if they’d sing something as an old man could understand; and he wouldn’t mind hearing Mr. Jim if he said somethin’ as was funny and would make a man laugh. Lord, you didn’t want to cry when you went out for something as pretended to be pleasuring. The old woman can do that fast enough at home. And as for Mr. Osborne, old George said as he draw’d the line at him.’ ‘What a horrid old man!’ said Florence. ‘No, he’s not at all a horrid old man. He is a great friend of mine; but he doesn’t like, as he says, and I agree with him, to have some one always a-nagging at him. When one’s mother does it, it’s horrid: and the curate would be worse. Jim, do you really like Mr. Osborne that you have grown such friends?’ ‘Well,’ said Jim, with much innocence and a touch of complaisance besides, ‘it’s him that looks as if he liked me.’