When Fanny came into the breakfast-room next morning, he asked her to walk with him in the demesne after breakfast. During the whole of the previous evening she had sat silent and alone, pretending to read, although he had made two or three efforts to engage her in conversation. She could not, however, refuse to walk with him, nor could she quite forgive herself for wishing to do so. She felt that her sudden attachment for him was damped by what had passed between her and Lady Selina; but she knew, at the same time, that she was very unreasonable for quarrelling with one cousin for what another had said. She accepted his invitation, and shortly after breakfast went upstairs to get ready. It was a fine, bright, April morning, though the air was cold, and the ground somewhat damp; so she put on her boa and strong boots, and sallied forth with Lord Kilcullen; not exactly in a good humour, but still feeling that she could not justly be out of humour with him. At the same moment, Lady Selina knocked at her father’s door, with the intention of explaining to him how impossible it was that Fanny should be persuaded to marry her brother. Poor Lord Cashel! his life, at that time, was certainly not a happy one. The two cousins walked some way, nearly in silence. Fanny felt very little inclined to talk, and even Kilcullen, with all his knowledge of womankind—with all his assurance, had some difficulty in commencing what he had to get said and done that morning. “So Grey Abbey will once more sink into its accustomed dullness,” said he. “Cokely went yesterday, and Tierney and the Ellisons go to-day. Don’t you dread it, Fanny?” “Oh, I’m used to it: besides, I’m one of the component elements of the dullness, you know. I’m a portion of the thing itself: it’s you that must feel it.” “I feel it? I suppose I shall. But, as I told you before, the physic to me was not nearly so nauseous as the sugar. I’m at any rate glad to get rid of such sweetmeats as the bishop and Mrs Ellison;” and they were both silent again for a while. “But you’re not a portion of the heaviness of Grey Abbey, Fanny,” said he, referring to what she had said. “You’re not an element of its dullness. I don’t say this in flattery—I trust nothing so vile as flattery will ever take place between us; but you know yourself that your nature is intended for other things; that you were not born to pass your life in such a house as this, without society, without excitement, without something to fill your mind. Fanny, you can’t be happy here, at Grey Abbey.” Happy! thought Fanny to herself. No, indeed, I’m not happy! She didn’t say so, however; and Kilcullen, after a little while, went on speaking.