“And do you think I would flatter you? Do you think I would stoop to flatter you? Oh! Fanny, you don’t understand me yet; you don’t at all understand, how thoroughly from the heart I’m speaking—how much in earnest I am; and, so far from flattering you, I am quite as anxious to find fault with you as I am to praise you, could I feel that I had liberty to do so.” “Pray do,” said Fanny: “anything but flattery; for a friend never flatters.” But Kilcullen had intended to flatter his fair cousin, and he had been successful. She was gratified and pleased by his warmth of affection. “Pray do,” repeated Fanny; “I have more faults than virtues to be told of, and so I’m afraid you’ll find out, when you know me better.” “To begin, then,” said Kilcullen, “are you not wrong—but no, Fanny, I will not torment you now with a catalogue of faults. I did not ask you to come out with me for that object. You are now in grief for the death of poor Harry”—Fanny blushed as she reflected how much more poignant a sorrow weighed upon her heart—“and are therefore unable to exert yourself; but, as soon as you are able—when you have recovered from this severe blow, I trust you will not be content to loiter and dawdle away your existence at Grey Abbey.” “Not the whole of it,” said Fanny. “None of it,” replied her cousin. “Every month, every day, should have its purpose. My father has got into a dull, heartless, apathetic mode of life, which suits my mother and Selina, but which will never suit you. Grey Abbey is like the Dead Sea, of which the waters are always bitter as well as stagnant. It makes me miserable, dearest Fanny, to see you stifled in such a pool. Your beauty, talents, and energies—your disposition to enjoy life, and power of making it enjoyable for others, are all thrown away. Oh, Fanny, if I could rescue you from this!” “You are inventing imaginary evils,” said she; “at any rate they are not palpable to my eyes.” “That’s it; that’s just what I fear,” said the other, “that time, habit, and endurance may teach you to think that nothing further is to be looked for in this world than vegetation at Grey Abbey, or some other place of the kind, to which you may be transplanted. I want to wake you from such a torpor; to save you from such ignominy. I wish to restore you to the world.” “There’s time enough, Adolphus; you’ll see me yet the gayest of the gay at Almack’s.” “Ah! but to please me, Fanny, it must be as one of the leaders, not one of the led.” “Oh, that’ll be in years to come: in twenty years’ time; when I come forth glorious in a jewelled turban, and yards upon yards of yellow satin—fat, fair, and forty. I’ve certainly no ambition to be one of the leaders yet.”