Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicester politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one, and lights it at my Lady’s shaded lamp.

“I must beg you, my Lady,” he says while doing so, “to remain a few moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note”—­Sir Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it—­“I am bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject of this young girl.  As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I replied that we would see him before retiring.”

Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her hosts—­O Lud!—­well rid of the—­what is it?—­ironmaster!

The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there.  Sir Leicester rings the bell, “Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, in the housekeeper’s apartments, and say I can receive him now.”

My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly, looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in.  He is a little over fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a shrewd though open face.  He is a responsible-looking gentleman dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active.  Has a perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence into which he comes.

“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief.  I thank you, Sir Leicester.”

The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between himself and my Lady.  Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.

“In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places that we are always on the flight.”

Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted in that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to mature, and the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time which was as much the property of every Dedlock—­while he lasted—­ as the house and lands.  Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, opposing his repose and that of Chesney Wold to the restless flights of ironmasters.

“Lady Dedlock has been so kind,” proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a respectful glance and a bow that way, “as to place near her a young beauty of the name of Rosa.  Now, my son has fallen in love with Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and to their becoming engaged if she will take him—­which I suppose she will.  I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some confidence in my son’s good sense—­even in love.  I find her what he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with great commendation.”