“None of it,” replied her cousin.  “Every month, every day, should have its purpose.  My father has got into a dull, heartless, apathetic mode of life, which suits my mother and Selina, but which will never suit you.  Grey Abbey is like the Dead Sea, of which the waters are always bitter as well as stagnant.  It makes me miserable, dearest Fanny, to see you stifled in such a pool.  Your beauty, talents, and energies—­your disposition to enjoy life, and power of making it enjoyable for others, are all thrown away.  Oh, Fanny, if I could rescue you from this!”

“You are inventing imaginary evils,” said she; “at any rate they are not palpable to my eyes.”

“That’s it; that’s just what I fear,” said the other, “that time, habit, and endurance may teach you to think that nothing further is to be looked for in this world than vegetation at Grey Abbey, or some other place of the kind, to which you may be transplanted.  I want to wake you from such a torpor; to save you from such ignominy.  I wish to restore you to the world.”

“There’s time enough, Adolphus; you’ll see me yet the gayest of the gay at Almack’s.”

“Ah! but to please me, Fanny, it must be as one of the leaders, not one of the led.”

“Oh, that’ll be in years to come:  in twenty years’ time; when I come forth glorious in a jewelled turban, and yards upon yards of yellow satin—­fat, fair, and forty.  I’ve certainly no ambition to be one of the leaders yet.”

Lord Kilcullen walked on silent for a considerable time, during which Fanny went on talking about London, Almack’s, and the miserable life of lady patronesses, till at last she also became silent, and began thinking of Lord Ballindine.  She had, some little time since, fully made up her mind to open her heart to Lord Kilcullen about him, and she had as fully determined not to do so after what Selina had said upon the subject; but now she again wavered.  His manner was so kind and affectionate, his interest in her future happiness appeared to be so true and unaffected:  at any rate he would not speak harshly or cruelly to her, if she convinced him how completely her happiness depended on her being reconciled to Lord Ballindine.  She had all but brought herself to the point; she had almost determined to tell him everything, when he stopped rather abruptly, and said,

“I also am leaving Grey Abbey again, Fanny.”

“Leaving Grey Abbey?” said Fanny.  “You told me the other day you were going to live here,”

“So I intended; so I do intend; but still I must leave it for a while.  I’m going about business, and I don’t know how long I may be away.  I go on Saturday.”

“I hope, Adolphus, you haven’t quarrelled with your father,” said she.

“Oh, no,” said he:  “it is on his advice that I am going.  I believe there is no fear of our quarrelling now.  I should rather say I trust there is none.  He not only approves of my going, but approves of what I am about to do before I go.”