"Oh, we have so much to talk of--our favourite books, and pictures, and music, places we have both seen, old acquaintances, places that he only has seen, and people whom he only has known; and then sometimes we get a little metaphysical--or even mystical. You know how superstitious the Scotch are, and I really think Captain Gordon is almost inclined to believe in the spiritualists." "That will do. Then Hector Gordon has not made you an offer?" "No, indeed," Cecil answered, blushing more deeply than before; "nor have I any reason to suppose he has the faintest idea of doing so. Pray do not mention the subject again, dear aunt. I have such a horror of any thing at all like husband-hunting." "As you please, my young lady. It's all very well to ride the high horse; but I think some day, when you find yourself unpleasantly close to your thirtieth birthday, and discover some ugly lines under those beautiful hazel eyes of yours--some day when I am dead and gone, and your delicate ivory-white complexion has grown as yellow as an old knife-handle--when you look forward to a dreary life of dependence upon others, or lonely struggles with a hard, pitiless world--I think then, Lady Cecil, you'll be inclined to regret that you were so contemptuously indifferent to Hector Gordon's merits. There, go and put on your bonnet, child; you may marry whom you please, or remain unmarried as long as you please, for all I care about it. And yet I had built quite a castle in the air about you, and I fancied how nice it would be for you and Hector to settle in Hyde Park Gardens, or thereabouts, and for me to live with you. I should like to end my days with my boy; and those second floors in Hyde Park Gardens are very delightful--especially if you are lucky enough to get a corner house." Mrs. MacClaverhouse's voice seemed to strike like some sharp instrument into Cecil Chudleigh's heart as she concluded this tirade. The girl had listened in proud silence, and retired silently when her aunt came to a pause. An excursion had been planned for the day; the fly was waiting before the gate, and Cecil heard Hector's step pacing to and fro on the gravel-walk below her open window, and smelt the perfume of his cigar as she put on her hat. But all the girlish joyousness with which she had been wont to attire herself for such rustic expeditions had fled from her breast, leaving a heavy dull sense of pain in its stead. "I dare say Aunt MacClaverhouse is right," she thought sadly; "and I shall feel a dreary desolate creature when I come to be thirty, and stand all alone in the world. But it is so horrible to hear her talk of good matches, just as if every girl must always be on the alert to entrap a rich husband; when I know too that Captain Gordon does not care for me----"