"Good-morning, good-morning, Lady Cicely," commenced Titmouse, with evident agitation, taking a chair and sitting down in it, plump opposite to her.
"You aren't well this morning, are you, Lady Cicely?" he continued, observing how pale she looked, and that she did not seem disposed to speak.
"I am quite well," she replied in a low tone: and then each was silent.
"It's beginning to look like winter a little, eh, Lady Cicely?" said he, after an embarrassing pause, looking through the windows--and his words diffused an icy coldness over Lady Cecilia. 'Twas an overcast day; and a strong wind was stripping the sere and yellow leaves in great numbers from the lofty trees which were not far distant, and gave forth a melancholy, rushing, moaning sound.
"Certainly it is getting rather cheerless," replied Lady Cecilia, after several moments' pause. Titmouse turned pale; and twirling his fingers in his hair, fixed upon her a stupid and most embarrassing look, under which her eyes fell towards the ground, and remained looking in that direction.
"I--I--hope his Lordship's been saying a good word for me, Lady Cicely?" he inquired with an absurdly sheepish air.
"My father mentioned your name to me yesterday," she replied, trembling excessively.
"'Pon my soul, monstrous kind!" said Titmouse, trying desperately to look at his ease. "_Said_ he'd break the ice for me." Here ensued another pause. "Everybody must have a beginning, you know. 'Pon my solemn honor, Lady Cicely, all he said about me is quite true." Profoundly as was Lady Cecilia depressed, she looked up at Titmouse for a moment with evident surprise. "Now, Lady Cicely, just as between friends, didn't he tell you something _very_ particular about me? Didn't he? Eh?" She made him no answer.
"I dare say, Lady Cicely, though somehow you look sad enough, you a'n't _vexed_ to see me here? Eh? There's many and many a woman in London that would--but it's no use now. 'Pon my soul, I love you, I do, Lady Cicely;" she trembled violently, for he was drawing his chair nearer to her. She felt sick--sick almost to death; and a mist came for a moment over her eyes.
"I know it's--it's a monstrous unpleasant piece of--I mean, it's an awkward thing to do; but I hope you love _me_, Lady Cicely, eh! a little?" Her head hung down, and a very scalding tear oozed out and trickled down her cheek. "Hope you aren't sorry, dear Lady Cicely? _I'm_ most uncommon proud and happy! Come, Lady Cicely." He took the thin white hand that was nearest him, and raised it to his lips. Had his perceptions been only a trifle keener, he could not have failed to observe a faint thrill pervade Lady Cecilia as he performed this act of gallantry, and an expression of features which looked very much like disgust. He had, however, seen love made on the stage, frequently; and, as he had seen lovers do there, he now dropped down on one knee, still holding Lady Cecilia's hand in his, and pressing it a second time to his lips.