But, nevertheless, during the first week of his stay at Hartlebury, he did not say a word to her more tender than his observation about the weather. It is true that he was very busy. He had undertaken to speak upon the address, and as Parliament was now about to be opened, and as his speech was to be based upon statistics, he was full of figures and papers. His correspondence was pressing, and the day was seldom long enough for his purposes. He felt that the intimacy to which he aspired was hindered by the laborious routine of his life; but nevertheless he would do something before he left Hartlebury, to show the special nature of his regard. He would say something to her, that should open to her view the secret of—shall we say his heart? Such was his resolve, day after day. And yet day after day went by, and nothing was said. He fancied that Lord Dumbello was somewhat less friendly in his manner than he had been, that he put himself in the way and looked cross; but, as he declared to himself, he cared very little for Lord Dumbello’s looks.
“When do you go to town?” he said to her one evening.
“Probably in April. We certainly shall not leave Hartlebury before that.”
“Ah, yes. You stay for the hunting.”
“Yes; Lord Dumbello always remains here through March. He may run up to town for a day or two.”
“How comfortable! I must be in London on Thursday, you know.”
“When Parliament meets, I suppose?”
“Exactly. It is such a bore; but one has to do it.”
“When a man makes a business of it, I suppose he must.”