The two cousins walked some way, nearly in silence.  Fanny felt very little inclined to talk, and even Kilcullen, with all his knowledge of womankind—­with all his assurance, had some difficulty in commencing what he had to get said and done that morning.

“So Grey Abbey will once more sink into its accustomed dullness,” said he.  “Cokely went yesterday, and Tierney and the Ellisons go to-day.  Don’t you dread it, Fanny?”

“Oh, I’m used to it:  besides, I’m one of the component elements of the dullness, you know.  I’m a portion of the thing itself:  it’s you that must feel it.”

“I feel it?  I suppose I shall.  But, as I told you before, the physic to me was not nearly so nauseous as the sugar.  I’m at any rate glad to get rid of such sweetmeats as the bishop and Mrs Ellison;” and they were both silent again for a while.

“But you’re not a portion of the heaviness of Grey Abbey, Fanny,” said he, referring to what she had said.  “You’re not an element of its dullness.  I don’t say this in flattery—­I trust nothing so vile as flattery will ever take place between us; but you know yourself that your nature is intended for other things; that you were not born to pass your life in such a house as this, without society, without excitement, without something to fill your mind.  Fanny, you can’t be happy here, at Grey Abbey.”

Happy! thought Fanny to herself.  No, indeed, I’m not happy!  She didn’t say so, however; and Kilcullen, after a little while, went on speaking.

“I’m sure you can’t be comfortable here.  You don’t feel it, I dare say, so intolerable as I do; but still you have been out enough, enough in the world, to feel strongly the everlasting do-nothingness of this horrid place.  I wonder what possesses my father, that he does not go to London—­for your sake if for no one else’s.  It’s not just of him to coop you up here.”

“Indeed it is, Adolphus,” said she.  “You mistake my character.  I’m not at all anxious for London parties and gaiety.  Stupid as you may think me, I’m quite as well contented to stay here as I should be to go to London.”

“Do you mean me to believe,” said Kilcullen, with a gentle laugh, “that you are contented to live and die in single blessedness at Grey Abbey?—­that your ambition does not soar higher than the interchange of worsted-work patterns with Miss O’Joscelyn?”

“I did not say so, Adolphus.”

“What is your ambition then? what kind and style of life would you choose to live?  Come, Fanny, I wish I could get you to talk with me about yourself.  I wish I could teach you to believe how anxious I am that your future life should be happy and contented, and at the same time splendid and noble, as it should be.  I’m sure you must have ambition.  I have studied Lavater [47] well enough to know that such a head and face as yours never belonged to a mind that could satisfy itself with worsted-work.”