apprised him of their wish to know what her origin was, and of her peculiar reserve on that topic:  whereat he assured them that she would have no secrets from him.  His conduct of affairs was so open that none could have supposed the gallant cornet entangled in a maze of sentiment.  For, veritably, this girl was the last sort of girl to please his fancy; and he saw not a little of fair ladies:  by virtue of his heroic antecedents, he was himself well seen of them.  The gallant cornet adored delicacy and a gilded refinement.  The female flower could not be too exquisitely cultivated to satisfy him.  And here he was, running after a little unformed girl, who had no care to conceal the fact that she was an animal, nor any notion of the necessity for doing so!  He had good reason to laugh when his sisters talked of her.  It was not a pleasant note which came from the gallant cornet then.  But, in the meadows, or kindly conducting Emilia’s horse, he yielded pretty music.  Emilia wore Arabella’s riding-habit, Adela’s hat, and Cornelia’s gloves.  Politic as the ladies of Brookfield were, they were full of natural kindness; and Wilfrid, albeit a diplomatist, was not yet mature enough to control and guide a very sentimental heart.  There was an element of dim imagination in all the family:  and it was this that consciously elevated them over the world in prospect, and made them unconsciously subject to what I must call the spell of the poetic power.

Wilfrid in his soul wished that Emilia should date from the day she had entered Brookfield.  But at times it seemed to him that a knowledge of her antecedents might relieve him from his ridiculous perplexity of feeling.  Besides though her voice struck emotion, she herself was unimpressionable.  “Cold by nature,” he said; looking at the unkindled fire.  She shook hands like a boy.  If her fingers were touched and retained, they continued to be fingers for as long as you pleased.  Murmurs and whispers passed by her like the breeze.  She appeared also to have no enthusiasm for her Art, so that not even there could Wilfrid find common ground.  Italy, however, he discovered to be the subject that made her light up.  Of Italy he would speak frequently, and with much simulated fervour.

“Mr. Pericles is going to take me there,” said Emilia.  “He told me to keep it secret.  I have no secrets from my friends.  I am to learn in the academy at Milan.”

“Would you not rather let me take you?”

“Not quite.”  She shook her head.  “No; because you do not understand music as he does.  And are you as rich?  I cost a great deal of money even for eating alone.  But you will be glad when you hear me when I come back.  Do you hear that nightingale?  It must be a nightingale.”

She listened.  “What things he makes us feel!”

Bending her head, she walked on silently.  Wilfrid, he knew not why, had got a sudden hunger for all the days of her life.  He caught her hand and, drawing her to a garden seat, said:  “Come; now tell me all about yourself before I knew you.  Do you mind?”