“What does that matter with me?  I must see you without that cap.”

“What! don’t you like my new cap?  Isn’t it a pretty cap?  Why, I bought it a purpose to come and see you in.”

“Oh, it is a very pretty cap in itself,” said the courtier, “but it does not suit the shape of your face.  Oh, what a difference!  Ah! now I see your heart in your face.  Will you let me make you a cap?”

“Will you, now, Miss Lucy?  I shall be so proud wearing it our house will scarce hold me.”

At this juncture a footman came in with a message from Mrs. Bazalgette to remind Lucy that they dined out.

“I must go and dress, nurse.”  She then kissed her and promised to ride over and visit her at her farm next week, and spend a long time with her quietly, and so these new old friends parted.

Lucy pondered every word Mrs. Wilson had said to her, and said to herself:  “What a child I am still!  How little I know!  How feebly I must have observed!”

The party at dinner consisted of Mr. Bazalgette, David, and Reginald, who, taking advantage of his mother’s absence and Lucy’s, had prevailed on the servants to let him dine with the grown-up ones.  “Halo? urchin,” said Mr. Bazalgette, “to what do we owe this honor?”

“Papa,” said Reginald, quaking at heart, “if I don’t ever begin to be a man what is to become of me?”

Mr. Reginald did not exhibit his full powers at dinner-time.  He was greatest at dessert.  Peaches and apricots fell like blackberries.  He topped up with the ginger and other preserves; then he uttered a sigh, and his eye dwelt on some candied pineapple he had respited too long.  Putting the pineapple’s escape and the sigh together, Mr. Bazalgette judged that absolute repletion had been attained.  “Come, Reginald,” said he, “run away now, and let Mr. Dodd and me have our talk.”  Before the words were even out of his mouth a howl broke from the terrible infant.  He had evidently feared the proposal, and got this dismal howl all ready.

“Oh, papa!  Oh! oh!”

“What is the matter?”

“Don’t make me go away with the ladies this time.  Jane says I am not a man because I go away when the ladies go.  And Cousin Lucy won’t marry me till I am a man.  Oh, papa, do let me be a man this once.”

“Let him stay, sir,” said David.

“Then he must go and play at the end of the room, and not interrupt our conversation.”

Mr. Reginald consented with rapture.  He had got a new puzzle.  He could play at it in a corner; all he wanted was to be able to stop Jane’s mouth, should she ever jeer him again.  Reginald thus disposed of, Mr. Bazalgette courted David to replenish his glass and sit round to the fire.  The fire was huge and glowing, the cut glass sparkled, and the ruby wine glowed, and even the faces shone, and all invited genial talk.  Yet David, on the eve of his departure and of his fate, oppressed with suspense and care, was out of the reach of those genial, superficial influences.  He could only just mutter a word of assent here and there, then relapsed into his reverie, and eyed the fire thoughtfully, as if his destiny lay there revealed.  Mr. Bazalgette, on the contrary, glowed more and more in manner as well as face, and, like many of his countrymen, seemed to imbibe friendship with each fresh glass of port.