“Nor any mistress, either, to control you, for some time, I suppose,” rejoined she, smiling, as if carelessly, but watching how her words were taken. Forester affected to partake in the laugh, but could not conceal a slight degree of confusion. Lady Netherby was too clever a tactician to let even a momentary awkwardness interrupt the interview, and resumed: “You will be dreadfully worried by all the 'lionizing' in store for you, I'm certain; you are to be feasted and feted to any extent, and will be fortunate if the gratulations on your recovery do not bring back your illness.” “I shall get away from it all at once,” said Forester, rising, and walking up and down, as if the thought had suggested the impatient movement. “You cannot avoid presenting yourself at the levee,” said Lady Netherby, anxiously; for already a dread of her son's wilful temper came over her. “His Royal Highness's inquiries after you do not leave an option on this matter.” “What if I'm too ill?” said he, doggedly; “what if I should not be in town?” “But where else could you be, Richard?” said she, with a resumption of her old imperiousness of tone and manner. “In Ireland, madam,” said Forester, coldly. “In Ireland! And why, for any sake, in Ireland?” Forester hesitated, and grew scarlet; he did not know whether to evade inquiry by a vague reply, or at once avow his secret determination. At length, with a faltering, uncertain voice, he said: “A matter of business will bring me to that country; I have already conversed with Lord Castlereagh on the subject. Lord Netherby was present.” “I'm sure he could never concur,-I'm certain.” So far her Ladyship had proceeded, when a sudden fear came over her that she had ventured too far, and turning hastily, she rang the bell beside her. “Davenport,” said she to the grave-looking groom of the chambers, who as instantaneously appeared, “is my Lord at home?” “His Lordship is in the library, my Lady.” “Alone?” “No, my Lady, a gentleman from Ireland is with his Lordship.” “A gentleman from Ireland!” repeated she, half aloud, as though the very mention of that country were destined to persecute her; then quickly added, “Say I wish to speak with him here.” The servant bowed and withdrew; and now a perfect silence reigned in the apartment. Forester felt that he had gone too far to retreat, even were he so disposed, and although dreading nothing more than a “scene,” awaited, without speaking, the course of events. As much yielding to an involuntary impatience as to relieve the awkwardness of the interval, he arose and walked into the adjoining drawing-room, carelessly tossing over books and prints upon the tables, and trying to affect an ease he was very far from experiencing.