“What was Miss Delamere reading?”

“Oh, only Hallam’s Constitutional History.”

“Great Heavens!” whispered Glenville to me, “think of that!”

“Do you like it?” asked Thornton.

“Well, I can’t say I do, but I suppose I ought.  My mother wanted me to bring it.”

“I think it must be very dull,” said Thornton, “though I have never tried it.  I have just finished Kingsley’s Two Years Ago.  It is awfully good.  May I lend it to you?”

“Oh, I do so like a good novel when I can get it, but I am afraid I mayn’t.”

“What is that, Flo?” asked her mother.  “You know I do not approve of novels, except, of course, Sir Walter’s.  My daughters, Mr. Thornton, have, I hope, been brought up very differently from most young ladies.  I always encourage them to read such works as are likely to tend to the improvement of their understanding and the cultivation of their taste.  I always choose their books for them.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Mr. Delamere, “if Mr. Thornton recommends the book, Flo can have it.  I know nothing of books, sir, and care less; but if you say it is a good book, that is sufficient.”

“Oh, quite so indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Delamere, “if Mr. Thornton recommends the book.  My daughter Florence has too much imagination, dear child, and we have to be very careful.  May I inquire the name of the work which you recommend?”

She called everything a work.

“Oh, only Two Years Ago, by Kingsley,” said Thornton.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Delamere, “a delightful writer.  The Rev. Charles Kingsley was a man whom I unfeignedly admire.  Perhaps I might not altogether approve of his writings for young persons, but for those whose minds have been matured by a considerable acquaintance with our literature it is, of course, different.  He is a bold and fearless thinker.  He is not fettered and tied down by those barriers which impede the speculations of other writers.”

“Off she goes!” whispered Glenville to me, “broken her knees over the first metaphor.  She will be plunging wildly in the ditch directly, and never fairly get out of it for about an hour and a half.  Let us escape while we can.”  We rose and left Mrs. Delamere explaining to Thornton how darling Florence and dearest Beatrix were all that a fond and intellectual mother could desire.  She was anxious to be thought to be trembling on the verge of atheism, to which position her highly-gifted intelligence quite entitled her; while, at the same time, her strong judgment and moral virtues enabled her to assist in supporting the orthodox faith.  The younger Miss Delamere (Beatrix) was doing one of those curious pieces of work in which ladies delight, which appear to be designed for no particular purpose, and which, curiously enough, are always either a little more or less than half finished.  I think she very seldom spoke.  She was positively crushed by that most superior person, her mother.  Flo was gazing abstractedly into the sea, hearing her mother but not listening, while Thornton was seated a foot or two below her, gazing up into her deep-blue eyes, shaded by her large hat and dark hair, as happy and deluded as a lunatic who thinks himself monarch of the world.