[FOOTNOTE 47:  Lavater—­Johann Kaspar Lavater (1741-1801),
Swiss writer whose only widely read book was a
tract on physiognomy (Physiognomische Fragmente
zur Befoerderung der Menschenkenntnis und
Menschenliebe).  The Victorians put much stock in
physiognomy.]

“You are very severe on the poor worsted-work.”

“But am I not in the right?”

“Decidedly not.  Lavater, and my head and face, have misled you.”

“Nonsense, Fanny.  Do you mean to tell me that you have no aspiration for a kind of life different from this you are leading?—­If so, I am much disappointed in you; much, very much astray in my judgment of your character.”  Then he walked on a few yards, looking on the ground, and said, “Come, Fanny, I am talking very earnestly to you, and you answer me only in joke.  You don’t think me impertinent, do you, to talk about yourself?”

“Impertinent, Adolphus—­of course I don’t.”

“Why won’t you talk to me then, in the spirit in which I am talking to you?  If you knew, Fanny, how interested I am about you, how anxious that you should be happy, how confidently I look forward to the distinguished position I expect you to fill—­if you could guess how proud I mean to be of you, when you are the cynosure of all eyes—­the admired of all admirers—­admired not more for your beauty than your talent—­if I could make you believe, Fanny, how much I expect from you, and how fully I trust that my expectations will be realised, you would not, at any rate, answer me lightly.”

“Adolphus,” said Fanny, “I thought there was to be no flattering between us?”

“And do you think I would flatter you?  Do you think I would stoop to flatter you?  Oh!  Fanny, you don’t understand me yet; you don’t at all understand, how thoroughly from the heart I’m speaking—­how much in earnest I am; and, so far from flattering you, I am quite as anxious to find fault with you as I am to praise you, could I feel that I had liberty to do so.”

“Pray do,” said Fanny:  “anything but flattery; for a friend never flatters.”

But Kilcullen had intended to flatter his fair cousin, and he had been successful.  She was gratified and pleased by his warmth of affection.  “Pray do,” repeated Fanny; “I have more faults than virtues to be told of, and so I’m afraid you’ll find out, when you know me better.”

“To begin, then,” said Kilcullen, “are you not wrong—­but no, Fanny, I will not torment you now with a catalogue of faults.  I did not ask you to come out with me for that object.  You are now in grief for the death of poor Harry”—­Fanny blushed as she reflected how much more poignant a sorrow weighed upon her heart—­“and are therefore unable to exert yourself; but, as soon as you are able—­when you have recovered from this severe blow, I trust you will not be content to loiter and dawdle away your existence at Grey Abbey.”

“Not the whole of it,” said Fanny.