"He had great spirits when I knew him," said he; "and he had then less cause to make him happy."
Mrs. Merton smiled, and turned rather pointedly towards Evelyn.
Maltravers continued, "I never met the late lord. He had none of the vivacity of his nephew, I believe."
"I have heard that he was very severe," said Mrs. Merton, lifting her glass towards a party that had just entered.
"Severe!" exclaimed Evelyn. "Ah, if you could have known him! the kindest, the most indulgent--no one ever loved me as he did." She paused, for she felt her lip quiver.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," said Mrs. Merton, coolly. Mrs. Merton had no idea of the pain inflicted by treading upon a feeling. Maltravers was touched, and Mrs. Merton went on. "No wonder he was kind to you, Evelyn,--a brute would be that; but he was generally considered a stern man."
"I never saw a stern look, I never heard a harsh word; nay, I do not remember that he ever even used the word 'command,'" said Evelyn, almost angrily.
Mrs. Merton was about to reply, when suddenly seeing a lady whose little girl had been ill of the measles, her motherly thoughts flowed into a new channel, and she fluttered away in that sympathy which unites all the heads of a growing family. Evelyn and Maltravers were left alone.
"You do not remember your father, I believe?" said Maltravers.
"No father but Lord Vargrave; while he lived, I never knew the loss of one."
"Does your mother resemble you?"
"Ah, I wish I could think so; it is the sweetest countenance!"
"Have you no picture of her?"
"None; she would never consent to sit."
"Your father was a Cameron; I have known some of that name."
"No relation of ours: my mother says we have none living."
"And have we no chance of seeing Lady Vargrave in B-----shire?"
"She never leaves home; but I hope to return soon to Brook-Green."
Maltravers sighed, and the conversation took a new turn.
"I have to thank you for the books you so kindly sent; I ought to have returned them ere this," said Evelyn.
"I have no use for them. Poetry has lost its charm for me,--especially that species of poetry which unites with the method and symmetry something of the coldness of Art. How did you like Alfieri?"