He had, during the last two or three days, applied himself to the task of ingratiating himself with Fanny. He well knew how to suit himself to different characters, and to make himself agreeable when he pleased; and Fanny, though she had never much admired her dissipated cousin, certainly found his conversation a relief after the usual oppressive tedium of Grey Abbey society. He had not begun by making love to her, or expressing admiration, or by doing or saying anything which could at all lead her to suspect his purpose, or put her on her guard. He had certainly been much more attentive to her, much more intimate with her, than he usually had been in his flying visits to Grey Abbey; but then he was now making his first appearance as a reformed rake; and besides, he was her first cousin, and she therefore felt no inclination to repel his advances. He was obliged, in performance of a domestic duty, to walk out to dinner with one of Lady George’s daughters, but he contrived to sit next to Fanny—and, much to his father’s satisfaction, talked to her during the whole ceremony. “And where have you hidden yourself all the morning, Fanny,” said he, “that nobody has seen anything of you since breakfast?” “Whither have _you_ taken yourself all the day, rather, that you had not a moment to come and look after us? The Miss O’Joscelyns have been expecting you to ride with them, walk with them, talk with them, and play _la grace_ with them. They didn’t give up the sticks till it was quite dark, in the hope of you and Mr Tierney making your appearance.” “Well, Fanny, don’t tell my mother, and I’ll tell you the truth:—promise now.” “Oh, I’m no tell-tale.” “Well then,” and he whispered into her ear—“I was running away from the Miss O’Joscelyns.” “But that won’t do at all; don’t you know they were asked here for your especial edification and amusement?” “Oh, I know they were. So were the bishop, and the colonel, and Lord George, and their respective wives, and Mr Hill. My dear mamma asked them all here for my amusement; but, you know, one man may lead a horse to water—a hundred can’t make him drink. I cannot, cannot drink of the Miss O’Joscelyns, and the Bishop of Maryborough.” “For shame, Adolphus! you ought at any rate to do something to amuse them.” “Amuse them! My dear Fanny, who ever heard of amusing a bishop? But it’s very easy to find fault; what have you done, yourself, for their amusement?” “I didn’t run away from them; though, had I done so, there would have been more excuse for me than for you.”