"I'll be a Carthusian!" repeated the knight, but in a tone less assured: he relapsed into a reverie.--Shave his head!--he did not so much mind that,--he was getting rather bald already;--but, beans for dinner,--and those without butter--and then a horse-hair shirt! The knight seemed undecided: his eye roamed gloomily around the apartment; it paused upon different objects, but as if it saw them not; its sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its glance: it rested at last upon the fair face of the sympathising damsel at his side, beautiful in her grief. Her tears had ceased; but her eyes were cast down, and mournfully fixed upon her delicate little foot, which was beating the devil's tattoo. There is no talking to a female when she does not look at you. Sir Guy turned round,--he seated himself on the edge of the bed; and, placing his hand beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees. "I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice; but what's to become of me? Poor, miserable, old--that is, poor, miserable, middle-aged man that I am!--No one to comfort, no one to care for me!"--Beatrice's tears flowed afresh, but she opened not her lips.--"'Pon my life!" continued he, "I don't believe there is a creature now would care a button if I were hanged to-morrow!" "Oh! don't say so, Sir Guy!" sighed Beatrice; "you know there's--there's Master Everard, and--and Father Francis--" "Pish!" cried Sir Guy testily. "And--there's your favourite old bitch." "I am not thinking of old bitches!" quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri. Another pause ensued: the knight had released her chin, and taken her hand;--it was a pretty little hand, with long taper fingers and filbert-formed nails, and the softness of the palm said little for its owner's industry. "Sit down, my dear Beatrice," said the knight, thoughtfully; "you must be fatigued with your long watching. Take a seat, my child."--Sir Guy did not relinquish her hand; but he sidled along the counterpane, and made room for his companion between himself and the bed-post. Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in, especially when the right hand of the one holds the right hand of the other:--in such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? Sir Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the bed a little in the rear of his companion. "Another!" repeated Sir Guy, musing;--"if, indeed, I could find such another!"--He was talking to his thought, but Beatrice Grey answered him. "There's Madam Fitzfoozle." "A frump!" said Sir Guy. "Or the Lady Bumbarton." "With her hump!" muttered he. "There's the Dowager--"