A quaint reprimand from the admiral, half in jest, half in earnest, gave her time to recover herself.  She ventured another look at George Bartram.  The impression which he produced on her this time roused her curiosity immediately.  His face and manner plainly expressed anxiety and preoccupation of mind.  He looked oftener at his plate than at his uncle, and at Magdalen herself (except one passing inspection of the new parlor-maid, when the admiral spoke to her) he never looked at all.  Some uncertainty was evidently troubling his thoughts; some oppression was weighing on his natural freedom of manner.  What uncertainty? what oppression?  Would any personal revelations come out, little by little, in the course of conversation at the dinner-table?

No.  One set of dishes followed another set of dishes, and nothing in the shape of a personal revelation took place.  The conversation halted on irregularly, between public affairs on one side and trifling private topics on the other.  Politics, home and foreign, took their turn with the small household history of St. Crux; the leaders of the revolution which expelled Louis Philippe from the throne of France marched side by side, in the dinner-table review, with old Mazey and the dogs.  The dessert was put on the table, the old sailor came in, drank his loyal toast, paid his respects to “Master George,” and went out again.  Magdalen followed him, on her way back to the servants’ offices, having heard nothing in the conversation of the slightest importance to the furtherance of her own design, from the first word of it to the last.  She struggled hard not to lose heart and hope on the first day.  They could hardly talk again to-morrow, they could hardly talk again the next day, of the French Revolution and the dogs.  Time might do wonders yet; and time was all her own.

Left together over their wine, the uncle and nephew drew their easy-chairs on either side of the fire; and, in Magdalen’s absence, began the very conversation which it was Magdalen’s interest to hear.

“Claret, George?” said the admiral, pushing the bottle across the table.  “You look out of spirits.”

“I am a little anxious, sir,” replied George, leaving his glass empty, and looking straight into the fire.

“I am glad to hear it,” rejoined the admiral.  “I am more than a little anxious myself, I can tell you.  Here we are at the last days of March—­and nothing done!  Your time comes to an end on the third of May; and there you sit, as if you had years still before you, to turn round in.”

George smiled, and resignedly helped himself to some wine.

“Am I really to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you are serious in what you said to me last November?  Are you actually resolved to bind me to that incomprehensible condition?”

“I don’t call it incomprehensible,” said the admiral, irritably.