Rosamunda looked round, with the air of one interrupted by a frivolous question which requires no answer; but some one less exalted, and more attentive to the common forms of civility, told his lordship that Lady Julia was in the gallery with her brother. Lord Glistonbury hurried Vivian into the gallery. He was struck the moment he met Lady Julia with the great change and improvement in her appearance. Instead of the childish girl he had formerly seen flying about, full only of the frolic of the present moment, he now saw a fine graceful woman with a striking countenance that indicated both genius and sensibility. She was talking to her brother with so much eagerness, that she did not see Vivian come into the gallery; and, as he walked on towards the farther end, where she was standing, he had time to admire her. “A fine girl, faith! though she is my daughter,” whispered Lord Glistonbury; “and would you believe that she is only sixteen?” “Only sixteen!” “Ay: and stay till you talk to her--stay till you hear her--you will be more surprised. Such genius! such eloquence! She’s my own girl. Well, Julia, my darling!” cried he, raising his voice, “in the clouds, as usual?” Lady Julia started--but it was a natural, not a theatric start--colouring at the consciousness of her own absence of mind. She came forward with a manner that apologized better than words could do, and she received Mr. Vivian so courteously, and with such ingenuous pleasure in her countenance, that he began to rejoice in having accepted the invitation to Glistonbury; at the same instant, he recollected a look which his mother had given him when he first saw Lady Julia on the terrace of the castle. “Well, what was she saying to you, Lidhurst? hey! my boy?” “We were arguing, sir.” “Arguing! Ay, ay, she’s the devil for that!--words at will!--‘Persuasive words, and more persuasive sighs!’ Ah, woman! woman for ever! always talking us out of our senses! and which of the best of us would not wish it to be so? ‘Oh! let me, let me be deceived!’ is the cream of philosophy, epicurean and stoic--at least, that’s my creed. But to the point: what was it about that she was holding forth so charmingly--a book or a lover? A book, I’ll wager: she’s such a romantic little fool, and so unlike other women: leaves all her admirers there in the drawing-room, and stays out here, talking over musty books with her brother. But come, what was the point? I will have it argued again before me--Let’s see the book.”