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CHAPTER 7: ADVANCED SHELL PROGRAMMING

TRUE/FALSE

1. The program development cycle begins with creating specifications for a program.

ANS: T REF: 340

2. After creating a flowchart, the next step in designing a program is to write the program code.

ANS: F REF: 343

3. Pseudocode is a design tool only, and is never processed by the computer.

ANS: T REF: 343

4. In UNIX/Linux, all shells support the same commands and programming statements.

ANS: F REF: 344

5. A .bash_logout file in each Bash user’s home directory executes commands when the user logs out.

ANS: T REF: 348

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. The second step in the program development cycle is ____.

a. creating program specifications c. the design process
b. coding the program d. debugging
ANS: C REF: 340

2. A ____ is a logic diagram that uses a set of standard symbols to visually explain the sequence of
events from the start of a process to its end point.
a. flowchart c. block chart
b. map d. pseudocode
ANS: A REF: 340

3. Each step in the program is represented by a(n) ____ in the flowchart.

a. block c. label
b. arrow d. symbol
ANS: D REF: 341

4. In a flowchart, a(n) ____ is used to represent a process.

a. diamond c. circle
b. rectangle d. arrow
ANS: B REF: 342

5. In a flowchart, a(n) ____ is used to indicate process flow.

a. diamond c. circle
 b. rectangle d. arrow
ANS: D REF: 342

6. In a flowchart, a(n) ____ is an on-page connector to continue process flow.

a. diamond c. circle
b. rectangle d. arrow
ANS: C REF: 342

7. In a flowchart, a(n) ____ is used to represent a decision.

a. diamond c. circle
b. rectangle d. arrow
ANS: A REF: 342

8. When you create a script, you should include the command that sets the particular shell to use on ____.
a. the configuration file c. the first line of the script
b. your login script d. the last line of the script
ANS: C REF: 344

9. The line in the script for setting the Bash shell is: ____.
a. #!/bin/bash c. #/bin/bash
b. !#/bin/bash d. !/bin/bash
ANS: A REF: 344

10. For your own account, the shell that is set up by default is established by the system administrator in
the ____ file.
a. /etc/shell c. /etc/shadow
b. /etc/passwd d. /etc/default
ANS: B REF: 345

11. Each record in the /etc/passwd file is simply a record with variable-length fields separated by ____.
a. dashes (-) c. semicolons (;)
b. commas (,) d. colons (:)
ANS: D REF: 345

12. ____ is a multifunction tool that enables you to manage openSUSE from one location.
a. User Manager c. Control Panel
b. YaST d. MC
ANS: B REF: 345

13. The .bashrc file is a hidden file contained in ____ directory.

a. the root c. the /usr
b. your home d. the /home
ANS: B REF: 346

14. To view a list of the files in a directory, including the hidden files, you should enter ____.
a. ls -l c. ls -h
b. ls -r d. ls -a
 ANS: D REF: 346

15. The ____ file is run each time you log in or give the command to set Bash as your current shell, but
not when you run a subshell.
a. .bash_profile c. .bashrc
b. .bash d. .bash_login
ANS: A REF: 347

16. The ____ file typically contains settings, such as environment variable settings, aliases, and other
settings that you always want in effect when you are in the Bash shell.
a. .bash_profile c. .bashrc
b. .bash d. .bash_login
ANS: A REF: 347

17. The ____ file runs when you log in using the Bash shell as the default, and each time you start a Bash
shell within a Bash shell.
a. .bash_profile c. .bashrc
b. .bash d. .bash_login
ANS: C REF: 347

18. The ____ operator of the test command, combines two expressions and tests a logical OR relationship
between them.
a. | c. -O
b. || d. -o
ANS: D REF: 353

19. To format record output you can use the translate utility, ____.
a. tr c. trans
b. trns d. translate
ANS: A REF: 353

20. A simple way to delete a record using ____ is with the -d (delete) option.
a. awk c. test
b. sed d. tr
ANS: B REF: 354

21. A function name differs from a variable name because a function name is followed by a set of ____.
a. parentheses c. square brackets
b. curly brackets d. angle brackets
ANS: A REF: 360

COMPLETION

1. ____________________ enable you to determine the type of data needed for input, the processes that
must be performed, and the output requirements.

ANS: Specifications
 REF: 340

2. Two popular and proven analysis tools are used to help you design your programs to meet the program
specifications: the flowchart and ____________________.

ANS: pseudocode

REF: 340

3. The ____________________ that connect the symbols in a flowchart represent the direction in which
the program flows.

ANS: arrows

REF: 341

4. ____________________ instructions are similar to actual programming statements.

ANS: Pseudocode

REF: 343

5. The /____________________/bashrc file sets default functions and aliases.

ANS: etc

REF: 348

6. You can define functions from the command line by first entering the name of the function and then
completing the ____________________ to define it.

ANS: parameters

REF: 360

MATCHING

Match each option of the test command with a statement below.

a. -a f. -n
b. ! g. -nt
c. -r h. -s
d. -f i. -e
e. -ne
1. performs a relational integer test
2. tests for a nonzero string length
3. true if a file exists
4. true if a file exists and is a regular file
5. compares the first file in the argument with the second file to determine if the first file is newer
6. true if a file exists and can be read
7. true if a file exists and its size is greater than zero
8. logical AND
9. logical negation
 1. ANS: E REF: 350
2. ANS: F REF: 351
3. ANS: I REF: 352
4. ANS: D REF: 352
5. ANS: G REF: 352
6. ANS: C REF: 352
7. ANS: H REF: 352
8. ANS: A REF: 353
9. ANS: B REF: 353

SHORT ANSWER

1. What are flowcharts used for?

ANS:
Organizations use flowcharts to design and document all kinds of processes and procedures.
Programmers also use flowcharts to map and understand a program’s sequence and each action the
program takes. For the programmer the flowchart provides a map through the design process to show
what programs and logic must be created. It provides a way of linking what is wanted in the
specifications to the program code that is to be written.

REF: 340

2. What are pseudocode instructions used for?

ANS:
Pseudocode instructions are used to create a model that you can later use as a basis for a real program.

REF: 343

3. If you are using the Bash shell, what scripts are run automatically when you log in?

ANS:
With Bash set as your shell, two scripts run automatically when you log in: .bash_profile and .bashrc.

REF: 346

4. How can you set defaults for using the vi editor?

ANS:
If you like using the vi editor, you have the option of configuring a file called .exrc in your home
directory. .exrc can be used to automatically set up your vi environment.

REF: 348

5. What is the test command used for?

ANS:
The test command is used to analyze an expression to determine if it is true—often used in shell scripts
to verify an environmental condition, such as the existence of a file.
 REF: 349

6. How can you view the most recent command’s exit status?

ANS:
You can view the most recent command’s exit status by typing the command: echo $?.

REF: 350

7. What is a Boolean operator?

ANS:
A Boolean operator is a logical operator that symbolizes AND, OR, or NOT to evaluate a relationship,
such as a comparison of two expressions—and the result of the evaluation is either true or false.

REF: 352

8. The clear command is a useful housekeeping utility for clearing the screen, but you can use a faster
method. Describe this alternative method.

ANS:
You can store the output of the clear command in a shell variable. The output of the clear command is
a sequence of values that erases the contents of the screen. Storing these values in a variable and then
echoing the contents of the variable on the screen accomplishes the same thing, but about 10 times
faster.

REF: 355

9. What does “input validation” mean?

ANS:
Because users do not always enter valid data, a program should always check its input to ensure the
user has entered acceptable information. This is known as input validation.

REF: 358

10. What is a shell function?

ANS:
A shell function is a group of commands that is stored in memory and assigned a name. Shell scripts
can use the function name to execute the commands.

REF: 359
Other documents randomly have
different content
prompting of an affectionate heart, she had flattered herself that all
was well—and Mabel rejoiced that it was so. To say that the latter
was indifferent when she allowed herself to think, would have been
untrue; but now, with Amy, had gone, all restless doubts of the
future. A steady mind, a firm and trusting heart, and an humble, but
courageous, self-reliance, were sufficient, she felt, for her own
provision, though she would have trembled to have entrusted one so
dear, and so helpless, to such support as the brave man, sometimes,
when called on, to protect those he loves, has been seen to lose
nerve through dangers which, had he met them alone, would
scarcely have excited a thought of fear.
At length, Mrs. Lesly slowly opened her eyes, and gazed round her
for a few moments, as if to bring back the reality, and to separate it
from her dreaming fancy. Mabel shrunk slightly back; but her
mother, as if divining her motive, herself drew aside the curtain, and
taking her hand, said, gently—
"My sweet child, why should I fear to look upon these sad signs of
your grief? I have little cause to regret that she has gone a few days
before me. No, dear, I, who have seen so much of this cold world,
could scarcely wish to leave my darling to its stinted kindness—so
young—so helpless—and so unfriended."
"Ah," thought Mabel, as tears rushed to her eyes, "to have begged
for her her daily bread, would have been joy to losing her."
"I see," continued Mrs. Lesly, "that you can, with difficulty, perceive
why I speak so now; but, my Mabel, will remember, with gratitude,
should she ever suffer the unkindness of the world, that her sister
shares it not, and her noble heart will rejoice that she alone will
have to bear the trials, from which a dying mother cannot protect
her."
"Ah, Mamma, that word alone is dreadful; you must not—cannot
leave me."
"My child knows that there is a must, which cannot be resisted—and
I have mistaken my Mabel if she does not bow before this, with as
much courage and submission, as before every other trial.
Remember your dear father's words in his last illness—'Mabel, life is
but a short campaign after all, and you must fight to the end; who
would be so cowardly as to lay down his sword for a wound'?"
"I will remember, dearest mamma," said Mabel, more firmly, for the
words of her father always had influence with her; "and, oh, forgive
my selfishness."
Tears were in her mother's eyes, though her voice had been firm;
and Mabel, fearing to continue the conversation, returned to the
window, and looked out again upon the night, which was fast closing
around; but scarcely did she now heed the flitting clouds, and the
coming darkness, or the wind as it rocked the old trees, or their
branches, which, by their fantastic motion, appeared beckoning her
attention; they seemed, an hour ago, to echo back the light laugh,
whose gay music she would hear no more; but now the hour of
fancy was over, and oppressed by the real presence of grief, she
bowed her head, and chastened her heart to silence.
 CHAPTER IV.
There is one
Must be mine inmate, for I
may not choose,
But love him.

Southe
y
.

On the Saturday evening of the week which had been so eventful at

Aston, the Villars family were assembled in their showily furnished
drawing-room, in Sydney Place, Bath, each engaged in different
occupations; but all eagerly expecting the promised arrival of their
rich cousin, Colonel Hargrave. The drawing-room had been
studiously arranged, and had not failed to become what it was
intended to be—tempting morning and evening lounge, where every
single, and eligible man, obtained an easy chair, an amusing chat,
and a welcome, which flattered his vanity.
On the present occasion, the ladies of the family were all as finely
and as tastefully dressed in the newest mode, as an evening at
home could allow—and certainly, taken together, they might have
been regarded as a singularly fine family.
Mrs. Villars we have already had occasion to describe; yet, en
passant, it is necessary to say that herself at Aston, (swayed by the
conflicting feelings of conscience, and her sister's straightforward
reasoning, exercised with a candour, known to their girlhood before
either had chalked out her path in life,) was a very different
personage, indeed, to Mrs. Villars in Bath. The stately importance, or
smiling dignity, with which she received her levy of morning callers,
or evening guests, showed no wavering conscience, or doubtful
heart. A certain degree of intrigue many might have detected; but in
the mother of so large and fair a family that was easily forgiven;
and, while the gaiety of her conversation rendered her ever a
welcome and popular guest, the size of her rooms, and brilliancy of
her parties rendered her a valuable hostess. She was now moving
about the room to adjust something or other, or taking a peep at the
dining-table, to secure herself against anything which might give a
bad impression to the expected guest.
Next, if not first, in dignity, stood her daughter Caroline. She was
certainly beautiful, though rather fine than engaging, and her
expression was haughty and severe—yet beautiful she certainly was,
if the most perfect outline of feature is beauty. In figure she was
above the middle height; but this was modified by a well rounded
person, and a certain academical grace of movement. Her person
did not belie her character; she did not rate herself below her real
value, and might, indeed, often have erred on the wrong side. In her
manners, she was overbearing, but seldom unlady-like. She was
talented, yet wanted solidity—haughty and ill-tempered, yet seldom
mean, unless greatly tempted. In her own family she rivalled her
mother's influence—being a sort of person over whom it was very
difficult to have authority. Her age was something beyond thirty, and
the remembrance that, with all her beauty, she was still unmarried,
gave her mind a sourness which greatly embittered the comfort of
the circle of which she formed so prominent a part. On the present
occasion, however, she was in one of her best moods, for, slow to
take warning from the past, she looked on future conquest as
certain. The expected arrival of Colonel Hargrave, about whom, for
the last few months, she had been incessantly rallied by her mother
and sisters, gave a brilliancy to her color, and a radiancy to her large
black eyes—and as she leant over her harp, rambling over a few
airs, which might form a romantic greeting to him, Mrs. Villars
looked upon her with satisfied triumph. To tell the truth, she was
very much afraid of her on account of the haughty and imperious
temper, which, in childhood, she had forgotten to guide, and looked
upon no scheme for the benefit of her family, with more interest
than on the one which might secure Caroline a settlement, which
would satisfy her temper, bring honor on herself, and, not least,
remove her from all rivalry with her younger sisters. She had,
therefore, on the present occasion, been spared nothing which could
coax her wayward humour into rendering itself as fascinating as
possible—for well did Mrs. Villars know that by a little ill-timed
opposition, her anger might be roused, and thus all hopes of her
settling be lost. Her expensive taste had, therefore, been for the last
few weeks fully gratified, though Mrs. Villars trembled at every
request which she feared to refuse. Selina, her second sister, was
lounging about the room, sometimes taking up an old album, or a
piece of knitting, and wondering where the Colonel could be. She
was a very fair-skinned, fair-haired girl, with very light blue eyes—
bearing an expression of indolent, good nature. Her prevailing taste
was dancing, of which she was passionately fond. Less talented than
her elder sister, she yet understood better how to render herself
acceptable in society. The pretty lisp with which she often declined
attempting a difficult song, was by many deemed more pleasing
than her sister's perfect execution of it; and the many pretty
nothings about nothing, with which she entertained her partner in
the dance, or the smile which meant anything he liked to interpret
from it, was often preferred to Caroline's more sensible conversation.
She was not, however, so silly as she sometimes chose to appear; a
quiet sense of self-preservation usually befriended her, and rendered
her sufficiently alive to her own interest. But though very generally
liked, she was not often seriously admired.
Our friend Lucy was seated on a stool near the fire, seemingly
anxious to catch the fitful light as it fell upon a picture of Finella,
(her intended character for the fancy ball,) which she held in her
hand. It might have been that she remembered something of the
time when Captain Clair had so earnestly dissuaded her from going
to that very ball, for the color came and went upon her cheeks as if
her thoughts were far from the present scene, and as if they so
much occupied her as to prevent her feeling the tedium of
expectation.
Maria, the youngest of the sisters, was standing by her, trying, at
times, to rally her by remarks which dyed her cheek still deeper,
though she remained determinately inattentive to them.
Over Maria her mother had spent many a desponding hour; to her,
beauty was everything, and the beauty so lavishly given to her other
daughters, was in Maria singularly wanting. Maria, however,
possessed more energy than the others, and was not disposed to
weep over a deficiency, which she very justly considered to be no
fault of hers. Her mouth indeed was very misshapen, and her nose
anything but Grecian—but the irregularity of these features was very
much redeemed by a pair of handsome eyes, which, though they
sometimes sparkled with satire, as often sparkled with fun, in which
she peculiarly delighted, though, unfortunately, it occasionally
degenerated into vulgarity. She had sufficient common sense to
know that if she remained inactive, comparisons, which in most
cases are odious, would be doubly so between herself and her
sisters, and she seldom allowed her tongue to be sufficiently silent
to lead any one to take the trouble to scan her countenance; and,
perhaps, the knowledge of her own deficiency did much to
compensate for its existence.
One of the first exclamations a stranger would feel inclined to make,
on an introduction to this family circle, would be—Why are all these
girls unmarried? but no satisfactory answer could be given. Maria
suggested, when the subject was discussed in private, that luck was
against them. They were sought for, invited out, admired, flirted with
by a host of young men, who professed they would have died to
serve them, but somehow forgot to make those bona fide proposals,
which would probably have been of more service to them than their
deaths.
In leaving the description of Mr. Villars to the last, we are only
following a fashion which was too prevalent in his household. There
was little that was striking in his first appearance; he was only very
thoughtful, very gentle, and very gentlemanly. He was the younger
son of a wealthy merchant, and had been placed, much against his
inclinations, in a firm of some consequence in London. His natural
tastes led him to prefer rather classical studies, than the active part
in the world of business for which his father designed him. Respect
for parental authority, however, prevented his choosing his own
profession, in opposition to it; and, being a man of high principle, he
resolved that the dislike he entertained for his employment, should
not prevent his vigorously exerting himself in the state of life in
which he found himself. His prudence was rewarded, and during the
thirty years which he had unrepiningly given to his business, he was
fortunate enough to realize a fortune which enabled him to retire
from it, and having amply provided for his family, by insurances
effected on his own life, he was enabled, during his lifetime, to
gratify both himself and them in every reasonable way. Having
ceased to take any active share in the business, he removed to Bath,
where he hoped to find gaiety sufficient to satisfy their wishes, while
he indulged his dearly prized leisure in literary pursuits. This plan,
however, failed to answer his expectations; his former occupations
had given him little time to inspect personally the rising characters of
his children, who had been left entirely to their mother's guidance,
and he now found, when too late, that they were little calculated to
form that domestic circle towards which, through so many long
years, he had looked, as the haven of his rest. His tastes were not
theirs, and the self denying love which can atone for such
deficiencies, had, in their education, been forgotten. They were fond
of him in their own way, but this did not prevent their finding the
time spent in his study, in hunting for a lost passage, in a favorite
author, or listening to some of his own elegant compositions, very
dull indeed—though many efforts did he make to overcome this
difficulty, and to find one, at least, amongst his four daughters, who
might make a pleasant companion; but he had not the heart to
command the attentions which he well knew love alone could supply,
and with a sigh, he retired, not only companionless, but with a lower
idea of his own merits than they deserved. The greater part of his
time was now spent alone, in a way which little suited his gentle and
domestic disposition; and, contented with holding the reins of
domestic government, in serious matters, he let smaller
arrangements take their course, without troubling or interesting
himself in them. Such was the family group assembled to welcome
Colonel Hargrave. The hour appointed, had, however, long passed;
Mr. Villars had taken out his watch for the twentieth time, and now
stood with it in his hand. Mrs. Villars wearied of her repeated
messages to the kitchen to put off the dinner, and Caroline looked
lowering for a storm. But nothing availed; quarter followed quarter,
counted by impatient minutes. Yet, still, Mrs. Villars referred to the
Colonel's note, which she carefully carried in her bag, and again and
again read his promise to be with them at the time mentioned, in
order that he might accompany them to the ball on the Monday. She
had boasted of this, in no unsparing language, and, should he fail
her now, her mortification would be complete. Still, concealing her
own fears, she glanced, every now and then, entreatingly, at her
daughter.
At length, Mr. Villars declared he would wait no longer. This
resolution being at length carried, they adjourned, in no very
agreeable mood, to the dining-room, to partake of a fine dinner,
completely spoilt. Mr. Villars, feeling annoyed at the disrespect which
a neglected appointment often implies, was not in the best possible
humour, and his wife, eager to support the popularity of her
unknown favorite, was obliged to exercise no small rhetoric to make
all smooth. But when she looked at Caroline, and saw the cloud of
ill-humour gathering fast, and, as quickly shading her beauty, she as
fervently wished he would stay away for that night, at least, as she
had before been eager for his arrival. This last wish was fully
gratified, for the evening wore away, and yet no Hargrave made his
appearance.
 CHAPTER V.
At me you smiled, but
unbeguiled,
I saw the snare and I
retired.

Tennys
o
n
.

The Monday appointed for the fancy ball arrived, and still nothing
had been heard of Hargrave. Mrs. Villars fretted, and Caroline
assumed a haughty and sulky indifference. During the day, every
knock and ring brought disappointment, till the lateness of the hour
warned them to prepare for the ball. It was then that Caroline, for
the first time, announced her intention of remaining at home. In vain
did Mrs. Villars remonstrate that her fancy Sultana's dress had cost
more than twice as much as her sisters', and it was of as little use to
flatter her vanity by representing that she would be the most
elegantly dressed in the whole ball-room; Caroline's temper was not
to be conquered in a single night. Tired of persuasion, her mother
stormed, and changing entreaties for threats, commanded her to go;
but Caroline was obstinate, and nothing but bodily force could have
moved her from the arm-chair, in which she had settled herself for
the evening, with a candle close to her elbow, and a new novel in
her lap. She would not go, she declared, with a haughtiness which
would have suited a more unworthy proposal. Nor would she move
from her chair, even to give the assistance of her advice at her
sisters' toilet, or, in any other way betray the slightest interest in an
amusement for which they had all been so long and so busily
preparing.
Extremely chagrined, Mrs. Villars was compelled to submit, and, as
she gave a last glance at the beautiful velvet dress which taste and
money had alike been expended to prepare, the bitterness of her
disappointment was not a little increased by remembering that this
fruitless purchase had been made with part of the loan so hardly
wrung from her sister; and it was with an uneasy sensation of
annoyance, that she led her fair daughters that night into the
crowded ball-room.
Lucy, with a heart upon the rebound, and flushed with the
determination of piquing Clair, if possible, had never looked more
lovely than she did that night. A white dress of the greatest
simplicity distinguished her character, as Finella, while her long light
curls fell in careless tresses over her neck and shoulders, forming a
veil, which enhanced the beauty they seemed bent upon concealing.
How wildly beat the heart in that illregulated bosom? Her simply
going to the ball would, she imagined, shew herself free from any
deference to Arthur Clair's opinion, and if any thoughts of Amy Lesly
came unbidden amongst the revelry, she banished the remembrance
by a lighter laugh or a bolder sally. She could not fail to attract
attention, and many strangers were anxious to be introduced to the
fairy Villars, as she was that night called; but one only attracted, and
soon absorbed her attention, he was a young man of a
prepossessing appearance, with large melting eyes and a low
persuasive voice. Evidently attracted by her appearance, he had
obtained an introduction, under the name of Beauclerc. He waltzed
to perfection, and the implied compliments he every now and then
offered, in a tone and voice of great sweetness, Lucy took for deeper
homage than he perhaps intended, and the ready blush deepened
on her cheek, and her eye sparkled when she suffered herself to be
led to a seat apart from the dancers, where his witty remarks
afforded her ample amusement. So readily, indeed, flowed his
language, that the absent Clair sunk into nothing, a mere every-day
flirt, compared with this fascinating new acquaintance. Besides, he
possessed the power of drawing her out, and made her feel quite
clever, by leading her to display herself in a new light. He listened to
her remarks with the most flattering attention, and resigned her to
the gentleman who next claimed her hand for the dance, with
apparent reluctance. She was then surprised to find that she had as
little to say as formerly, and that her new partner's observations on
the fashionable news of the day had become quite uninteresting.
She was not, therefore, sorry to find Mr. Beauclerc again by her side,
when the dance was over, and she had taken a seat by her mamma.
"Can you tell me?" she said, turning to him, with a smile, "why, just
now, I had plenty to say, but immediately I began to dance with that
gentleman, I felt so dull I could not say any thing at all. I have been
labouring at conversation, I assure you, with as much industry and
dulness as the noted donkey at Carrisbrooke Castle employs in his
task, but with far less success, for he succeeds in fetching up some
water—I am afraid I cannot say the same, of a single idea. Would
you believe that I twice observed on the band, once on the room,
and three times on the lights. Can you tell me why, since you seem
to have the genius of explaining every thing?"
A well pleased smile passed over his lips as he replied, only, by
taking out a small hunting watch which he quietly opened, and then
handing it to her, he presented her at the same time with the key of
his escritoir.
"Will you," said he "oblige me by winding this watch."
"Oblige you," replied Lucy, laughing, "by breaking the spring, I
suppose—that key belongs to your desk."
"You give me the very answer I desired. You cannot wind my watch,
because I have not given you the right key. This illustrates what I
am going to say.
"There are some minds suited to other minds, as this watch is to its
key. This beautiful piece of mechanism," said he, playing with the
watch in his hand, "would be to me, or to any one else, perfectly
useless without the key, which, however simple in its construction, is
yet so necessary to the watch, that it alone can render it of any
service. It is so with the human mind, we may live for years without
being fortunate enough to meet with one answering mind which can
unlock the treasures of our heart, and the secret springs of feeling,
and of thought, and bring them into exercise. It is the sympathy of
those around us which we need, the power which others possess of
understanding us; to place ourselves in a true light—do you
understand me?"
"Partly," replied Lucy, hesitating, and looking down.
"Partly, but not entirely," returned Mr. Beauclerc, repeating her
words, with an emphasis, which argued a slight degree of
superiority, to which Lucy readily bowed. "Yet I would say you were
made to enjoy these things as well as understand them. Nay, you
must not think me rude if I say I read as much when first introduced
to you; and that I felt I should be understood if I ventured to speak
in a way which the world too often ridicules, because it does not
comprehend it. It is only the simple language of truth; yet, because
it is not exactly the same as the hacknied language of the world, it is
regarded as nonsense."
Lucy did not quite understand all he said, but she felt that she was
receiving an admiration more flattering, because paid to her
understanding; and she only broke up the conversation after
repeated invitations to the dance, and her pulse fluttered quickly as
she heard, or fancied she heard, a sigh from the accomplished
Beauclerc, as she gracefully resigned herself to a young officer, upon
whose arm she was soon whirled past him in the giddy round.
Mrs. Villars smiled with secret pride, when some of her friends rallied
her on her daughter's conquest, and she took an early opportunity
of asking a friend who he might be.
"Have you not heard?" was the reply, "that he has brought his own
carriage, and two hunters, to the Castle, and Ball—and, besides, his
person speaks for itself, it is so distingué."
Mrs. Villars sought for Lucy, to impart these particulars, but was not
sorry to find her waltzing with Mr. Beauclerc.
"What a handsome couple they would make," thought she; "and, oh,
if Caroline and Hargrave were but here, I should be quite happy."
But she little dreamt of the pleasure yet in store for that evening.
Mr. Villars soon beginning to feel impatient, she was compelled to
draw her party together. Beauclerc accompanied them to the door;
and as he handed Lucy into the carriage, she fancied his hand
trembled. With this pleasing impression, she leant back in the fly
which conveyed them home, and gave herself up to pleasant reverie,
and castle building. She ran over every word which had passed in
their long conversations, and thought they were an easy beginning
to a more pleasing acquaintance than they often met with—she
began then to feel quite surprised that she ever had given a tear to
Captain Clair.
"Willingly," she said to herself; "will I resign him to Mabel, if she will
have him; yet there was something in him I liked, though I cannot
well remember what it was now. Why, he never talked in six weeks,
half the sense which Mr. Beauclerc has thrown into one
conversation. I feel quite grateful to him for deserting me, since,
otherwise, I never should have met this very superior man, who, as
he himself observed, though not in plain words exactly, possesses
the key to my mind—and does not that seem like affection?"
These pleasing considerations were interrupted by their stopping at
their own door, paying the driver, and running gaily up stairs.
"Hark," said Mrs. Villars, "there are voices in the drawing-room, I am
certain. There are, I do believe."
"Why mamma," said Maria, who, with more courage, had applied her
eye to the key-hole; it is only Caroline talking to somebody. When,
upon this information, they opened the door, Caroline was
discovered tête-à-tête, with a strange gentleman, with as much ease
and nonchalance as if at the regular calling hour.
There was a slight tone of triumph in her voice as she said:—
"Colonel Hargrave, papa?"
"Oh, Colonel," said Mrs. Villars, taking the words out of her
husband's mouth; "I can scarcely forgive you for obliging us to go to
the ball without you."
"He has excused himself most ably," said Caroline; "the death of a
friend detained him."
"I assure you," said he, with the greatest courtesy, "that nothing but
so serious a reason would have prevented my keeping my
appointment; and I trust, my dear sir, that you will excuse my
keeping your dinner waiting on Saturday; but, as I said, just now,
some very sad circumstances detained me on my road."
"Pray, say not another word," said Mrs. Villars; "we are very sorry for
you, I am sure."
"I suppose," said Maria, "you did not arrive in time to join us?"
"Do you think," said Caroline, "that he could go to a fancy ball after
attending the death-bed of a friend?"
"No, truly," said he, "I was in no humor for such gaiety, and was
more pleased by the quiet welcome I have already received."
"Caroline has only expressed the feelings we should all entertain,"
said Mrs. Villars, smiling benignly, "and, indeed, I am most happy to
see my truant nephew, at last."
Hargrave slightly started at the word nephew, not being able to
divine how his distant connection with the family could be twisted
into so close a relationship.
"I trust," continued Mrs. Villars, "that Caroline has taken every care
of you, and that you have had some refreshment."
"Indeed she has been most kind," replied he politely. "She would not
allow me to persuade her to retire to rest, when I had once
announced my intention of remaining up to introduce myself. I will,
however, no longer tax your patience; but will go to my own room, if
you will allow me."
They accordingly separated, the Colonel lingering to say a few words
to his host, and the ladies retiring to a kind of mutual dressing-room.
"Well, my love," said Mrs. Villars to her eldest daughter, "I will never
blame you again, for I see you know how to manage without my
interference. Nothing could have turned out better."
She felt, indeed, half inclined to idolise her, for the very ill-temper,
which, in the early part of the evening, she had more justly blamed.
Caroline, in her turn, looked upon them all with an air of superiority,
as if the accident had been the result of her prudence.
"Indeed," she said, "he is a most sensible and entertaining man,
and, I dare say, if the truth were known, my evening was the most
pleasant after all."
"Not quite," replied Lucy, "for I also met with a most sensible and
entertaining man."
"Yes," echoed Maria, "such a handsome man too—Hargrave is
nothing to him. Every one was wondering who he was, and
remarking on his attentions to Lucy."
"What, is Lucy taken in again?" said Caroline, with jealous bitterness.
"I thought once in a season was sufficient."
Lucy coloured deeply and angrily, for it was not the first wound she
had received.
"Well," said she to herself, "I will be closer this time—I will have no
one to abuse my confidence by taunting speeches."
"Come, come," interposed Mrs. Villars, "do not let us quarrel with
fortune; for my part, I feel inclined to be on good terms with all the
world. Nothing could have been more propitious than your meeting
in such a romantic manner. What were you doing when he came in?
—at your harp, I hope. Well, how do you like him?"
"Why, Mamma, I think you believe in love at first sight. I am not so
easily won."
"Nor the Colonel either, I dare say," said Maria.
"I will thank you, Miss Maria, to remember what you say, and to
whom you say it."
"That I very seldom forget," retorted Maria, as she laid down her
Swiss hat and ribbons, with a sigh, to think that she might not
display them again.
"Come, come," again urged Mrs. Villars, "surely, Caroline, you can
give us your opinion of him. You are so quick at reading character."
"That may be," replied Caroline, "but I scarcely think the right
advantage to take of discrimination is to retail a private
conversation, for the sake of subjecting a friend to everybody's
quizzing observations."
Here she glanced angrily at Maria.
"Well," returned the latter, perfectly undisturbed, "is it come to friend
and private, already, that, at least, sounds like something, and if you
will conquer the good nabob in your own way, I suppose we must
excuse being kept in the dark, as the cat politely observed to the
mouse, when he was introduced to him in the cupboard."
"I think he is very handsome," said Selina.
"Yes," said Maria, "well enough since he possesses good eyes, good
teeth, good forehead, nose and eyes—all tolerably well put together.
Yes, I suppose he might be called handsome. I will ask Miss Foster,
she is such a judge of masculine beauty."
"I beg you will do no such thing," said Caroline; "he must be
considered as one of our own family, and I do not see what right
Miss Foster has to pass her observations on us."
"I am afraid you are not quite so rigid with regard to Miss Lovelace,"
retorted Maria.
Mrs. Villars saw that much bitter remark was rising, and knowing
that nothing could be obtained from Caroline, dismissed the
conclave, which had assembled at so late an hour, only in
consequence of the importance of affairs under deliberation; and she
retired to rest satisfied with the course events had taken, and fully
impressed with respect for Caroline's judgment. She, meanwhile, in
the retirement of her own room, condescended to give Selina an
account of the evening's conversation, by which means Mrs. Villars
heard the whole the next day from Selina, whose more gentle
temper rendered her the general recipient of her mother's schemes.
 CHAPTER VI.
He walked he
knew not
whither;
Doubt was on his daily
path; and duties
shewed not certain.

Tupper.

Colonel Hargrave was a little past the age when hearts are easily
won—and the ready courtesy with which he had performed his part
of the evening tête-à-tête, might have shown a less prejudiced
judge, that he was too accustomed to beauty, grace, and all the
endless charms so bewitching to a younger man, to make him very
easily fall into the snare which had been laid for him.
However, he had but very lately landed in England, after some years
spent in the East; and though like most English travellers, he had
been, at first, delighted with the marvels and records of ancient
days, which that quarter of the globe so lavishly affords, as well as
with the customs and habits of a people with whom he had
delighted to mingle, he was not sorry to find himself once again in
merry, busy England—one of a people whose interests are more of
the present than of the past, where the rapid march of improvement
and discovery, form a striking contrast to the splendid dreams of
past Eastern glory. Then the comfort of social society—home with all
its thousand associations of comfort and tranquillity were not
indifferent to him, and he was not sorry to find a gayer welcome
than the lonely halls of his own beautiful Aston might have offered
him. His sleeping apartment had been arranged with a care that
made it seem luxurious after the cabin fare to which he had lately
been accustomed, and he paid more attention to the trifles which
surrounded him than he had ever before done, for of such trifles he,
for the first time, perceived the importance, since all combined gave
a feeling of homely comfort which he felt he had scarcely missed till
now, when once more in the enjoyment of it. Opening from this
room was another, arranged with the most studious attention to
ease and appearance. A fire blazed a warm welcome, after his day's
journey, and everything conspired to make his little sitting-room one
suited to a gentleman's fancy—and by affording him a place of
retreat, he perceived that he would be allowed to enjoy the
company of his cousins only when he was inclined. In all this there
was such an evident desire to please, that he could not help feeling
a little flattered, though, perhaps, as representative of the family
credit and opulence, he might, at the same time, have felt it to be
his due, and a necessary appendage to the invitation.
Tempted by the blazing fire, he threw himself upon the horse-hair
sofa, which was near it, and fixed his eyes upon its flickering and
varying light, but as he did so, his countenance soon lost the air of
courteous pleasantry, which had a short while before possessed it,
and he appeared lost in deep and even bitter thought.
The grave accusations of old Giles, and the lighter description of
Clair, were both true; and yet a few words more of his mental history
is needed fully to unravel his character.
During the life of his mother, he had been the pride of her existence,
and keenly sensible of the quicksands which await the young man
on his entrance into life—she had watched his opening manhood
with the most tender solicitude. Her death, however, left him entirely
to the care of his father—and he, thinking the hot-house system of
preservation no longer befitting a youth of talent and ability, sent
him abroad, first with a tutor, and afterwards alone, in order that he
might acquire a knowledge of the world, and the ease, conversation,
and polish, which foreign travel is calculated to give. In this he was
fully successful. A short residence in the gayest city in Europe, so
called forth young Hargrave's natural refinement of taste, that few
could find fault with the manners of the finished gentleman whom
Paris sent back from its school. But in Paris he had been thrown with
those of professed Infidel principles—and amongst them he found
men of superior talent and great intellect, who, while they extorted
his own secret admiration, rendered him a homage to his youthful
talent of the most flattering kind. By them he was rashly led to
argue on the tenets of natural and revealed religion, and to discuss
points, which are rather matter for faith than comprehension—and
he entered on these questions with a spirit of which older men have
not been innocent, rather seeking to display his own powers in the
argument, than to do honor to the truth. The contest was eagerly
courted by those who only kept their hearts at ease by engaging in
the excitement of perpetual warfare. They were subtle reasoners,
and Hargrave found himself coping with them, only with the greatest
difficulty.
But, who can unlock the secret mysteries of the human mind, or
give a clue to its strange inconsistencies? Even while he argued, the
dreadful doubt passed into his own mind, and, wondering and
amazed, he found himself an unbeliever in the faith he had so
warmly defended! Too often have those who have become the most
devoted christians at an after period of their life, had to mourn such
infidelity, though, for a time only; and had Hargrave resorted to the
simple means used by his old tenant, whom his thoughtless words
had led astray, he, like old Giles, might have been restored to
comfort—but he only rushed deeper and deeper into argument, and
the more confirmed in error—he, at length, ended by declaring
himself vanquished, and thanking his new friends for having opened
his eyes to his own superstition. Thus eagerly received by a brilliant
coterie, adorned by wit, genius, and learning, he learnt to boast of
the sentiments he at first deplored, and to wonder that he should
have been weak enough to recognise any other.
Where then was the reward for a mother's untiring self-devoted love
to her son, through the years of infancy and youth? Despair not,
fond mothers—"cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it
after many days"—after many days, remember, and be patient.
One result, was, however, evident in this wild fit of recklessness—
under the pretence of keeping his intellect pure and unclouded, he
preserved the same rigid principles she had recommended, and in
this he was firm, spite of the ribaldry of his companions. "No one,"
he said, proudly, "should be able to affirm that he had abandoned
his religion because too weak to obey its laws." His friends,
therefore, left off their jests and boasted that no professor of
revealed religion could be a better moralist, or a more virtuous man.
But such virtue must ever be but an unsteady light, which is founded
on no firmer basis than self-opinion, and Hargrave might have
started when in foreign lands, he had lavished the most profuse
charity on those around him, had he remembered how blind he was
to the wants and sufferings of those who at home called him master.
Too late his father's death summoned him to Aston, to take
possession of the immense wealth which he thus inherited. After but
a brief stay, events induced him to leave his native country, and
entering the Indian army, he sought employment for his restless
energies on the banks of the Indus. There his military career had not
been without honor, and why he had returned to England, scarcely
himself could tell.
There he sat, an older, if not a wiser and better man. Dark thoughts,
like heavy clouds, seemed to pass over his mind, as with his hand
supporting his head, he gazed fixedly, but vacantly on the fire.
Perhaps he was thinking of his early days, and of the mother who
had taught him to hallow them. Perhaps he was remembering how
unable he had been to build the fabric even of human and short
lived earthly happiness, on so weak and failing a foundation as his
own unassisted virtue. For, to his heart, common joys had been
tainted. The sabbath chaunt had brought no melody to his ear,
reminding him of the rest which its Maker had hallowed. "The gentle
flowers that stooping o'er the wilderness—speak of joy, and faith,
and love," had seemed to him only a difficult clause in the argument
of an adversary. Such might have been the dark remembrances of
the hour, for he swayed himself to and fro, as if in an agony of spirit,
nor did he retire to rest till the grey dawn warned him of the
necessity of seeking repose.
 CHAPTER VII.
Wisdom revenges,
said
The world; is quick and
deadly of
resentment;
Thrusts at the very shadow
of affront,
And hastes by death to
wipe its honor clean.

Polloc
k
.

The next morning Lucy was down stairs by eight o'clock, appearing
scarcely to feel any fatigue from the gaieties of the last evening. The
servants, taking advantage of their mistress's slumbers, had not
been very careful to rouse themselves early; and as Lucy wandered
about the house, she found nothing but rooms half closed, and
maids with sweeping brushes, dusters, and open windows, forming
no tempting welcome on a cold morning. Yet, chill as was prospect
both within and without, she felt nothing cheerless that morning,
and, putting on her bonnet and cloak, she went out, saying she
would be back by breakfast time. She found the atmosphere thick
and humid, and cold drops quickly gathered on her veil. The streets,
under the influence of a slight thaw, were wet with black mud; but
she quickly threaded her way through them, till reaching Milsom
Street, she took her way towards the higher parts of the town. Few
people were stirring, shops were only just open, and the occupiers
engaged in filling their empty windows with a display for the day.
The light-hearted girl scarcely giving a thought to any thing around
her, soon reached the Circus, a fine but gloomy part of the town.
Time and the weather have cast a black shade over its formerly
clean white stone, which gives it an appearance of sadness, which is
shared by the sombre hue of the evergreens, which ornament its
garden. To one of its houses Lucy hurried, and after a short pause,
was ushered into it by an old man, apparently butler in the
establishment. The room into which she was shown, was upon the
ground floor, and shared in no very slight degree, the appearance of
the outside of the buildings. Its furniture was dark green, and the
curtains, with their many heavy folds had been suffered to trespass
too much upon the windows. There was an oak wainscoting round
the room, and here and there some old portrait frowned down from
the walls. The room was rather long than wide, and lighted by
windows only on the one side, looking on the street; this often made
it appear dark, but, in contrast to every thing about the place, a
bright fire blazed upon the hearth, and a small table, with a snowy
cloth, supported the hissing urn, and a frugal but snug breakfast.
Seated beside it was rather a young looking lady. There was a
certain air of unmistakeable dignity over her whole appearance; her
features, though irregular, were intellectual and commanding, and
the sparkling eye wandered with restless energy. Her hair was black
as an Indian's, and she might have been called beautiful, but for the
melancholy, which, as a veil, seemed thrown round her, stilling every
quicker impulse into chill composure. She held the Times in her
hand, folded at the leading article, but she laid it down and rose, on
Lucy's entrance, with a look of surprise and pleasure.
"Why love," said she, "I thought you would be sleeping for an hour
or two yet, after the fatigues of last night. I am sure no common
event would bring you out this foggy morning, but sit down and I
will give you some breakfast, for I am sure you have had none; let
me take off your shawl, and then you shall have some of your
favorite chocolate, and tell me your news as you drink it."
"I could not sleep," said Lucy, "and as no one was up I thought I
would come and see why you were not at the ball as you promised
last night."
"My poor uncle was so bad with his gout, that I had not the
resolution to leave him, and you know how little will tempt me to
stay away from such things," said Miss Foster, with a sigh.
"Ah," said Lucy, smiling, "clever people like you do not need such
frivolities; but what would my poor vacant brain do without them."
"Why is it vacant? But you have not, like me, given up the phantom
happiness, or you would prefer seeking something more
substantial."
Lucy glanced at the leading article, and gave a slight shrug.
"You may come to that at last," replied her friend, with a moonlight
smile, which passed almost immediately away, "really you do not
know what a pleasure the morning papers give me—they make me
remember that I am a denizen of the world, and besides, a daughter
of England, and then I forget how lonely I am as an individual."
"But why lonely," returned Lucy, "the slightest effort on your part
would surround you with friends, and you might have a host of
acquaintances instead of my poor self, whom alone you admit, and I
enjoy that privilege, merely from accident."
"You do not quite know me yet," said Miss Foster, "such society is no
longer tolerable. And I might never have known even you, had not
your horse thrown you at our very door, and forced me to open it.
There was, indeed, something so pleasing in being able to nurse you
for a few days, that I became insensibly attached to you. But such
accidents seldom occur, and I care not to go through the common
ordeal of acquiring acquaintances."
"Well," said Lucy, "when I am inclined to turn anchorite, Millie, you
must let me in, and I will come and live with you; but I am rather of
opinion that the world is a mirror which reflects back our smiles and
our frowns."
"Is that sentiment your own?" enquired her companion, quickly.
"No—second hand from a delightful partner that I met last night.
Such a very nice man—quite beyond my poor powers of description;
everything he said was so clever, and so new, it seemed as if he had
read more of the human heart than any one I ever met. He talked to
me nearly all the evening."
"Imprudent girl!" exclaimed Miss Foster.
"Oh, if you take everything I say so seriously," said Lucy, poutingly,
"I will not tell you anything."
"What kind of looking man was he?" said Miss Foster, without
heeding her remark.
"He must be thirty, at least," said Lucy—"with light brown hair, deep
blue eyes, rather tall, and very nice looking—not quite so handsome
as Captain Clair; but then his talking was the fascinating part."
"And what did he talk about?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," said Lucy, coloring.
"And did you hear his name?" enquired Miss Foster, almost
restraining her breath.
"Beauclerc," said Lucy; "is it not a pretty name?"
"You must have nothing more to say to him, if he talks such in a way
that you blush already. Will you promise me?" said she, most
violently.
"You must give me some reason."
"Imprudent girl, you must take my warning."
"If he were making love, I might consider," said Lucy; "but, as a
common acquaintance, and a delightful dancer, you must give me
some reason for cutting him."
"You are rash," repeated Miss Foster; "do not have anything to say
to him, or you will repent it."
"I am not to be led blind-folded," said Lucy; "and you must prove
me in danger before I can think such advice needed. Pray let us talk
of something else—my poor beaux always tease you."
There was a very palpable tinge of vanity in this last remark, which
caused Miss Foster to bite her lips, as if suppressing violent emotion,
and to remain silent, though the uneasy flash of her dark eye
betrayed something of the violence of her temper.
At this inopportune moment, a knock at the hall door announced
another early visitor.
The door of their sitting-room was, after an interval of some
minutes, cautiously opened by the venerable butler, who, with some
embarrassment, presented a card to his mistress on a silver salver.
Lucy almost trembled as she saw that the storm which had been
gathering on her friend's countenance was now ready to burst forth.
Her cheeks, which had a moment before been brightly flushed,
turned to a livid white, as she brushed the card from the salver
without touching it, and then stamped upon it with impotent
violence.
Lucy's eyes fell upon the name—it was that of "Beauclerc"—and,
unperceived, she took it up, and concealed it in the folds of her
dress from further indignity.
"I am not at home," said Miss Foster, in a decisive tone to the aged
butler, who regarded the scene with more concern than surprise,
and left the room slowly and sadly. The front door was presently
heard to close. As if ashamed of the passion into which she had
been betrayed, Miss Foster seated herself, at once, and tried to
resume her usual coldness of demeanor.
"See," said she, "the way in which I dare to treat him, and judge for
yourself if he is worthy to be received as an admirer of yours."
"I think," said Lucy, recovering her animation, "you have shewn
yourself very little my friend to treat a man with indignity, when I
had expressed a contrary opinion of him."
Miss Foster regarded her rising spleen with an indifferent coldness,
which made her still more angry.
"I say," she reiterated, "that it is a most unkind and ungrateful way
of returning my confidence."
"Wilful child!" exclaimed Miss Foster, "will you never be guided for
your own advantage?"
"I am no child!" exclaimed Lucy; "and if I do choose a guide, it shall
be one who can rule her own temper."
"You should allow for the emotion you cannot understand," said Miss
Foster, gravely; "but leave me now, Lucy, and do not be angry—we
are both excited—and may say things we do not mean."
"Leave you," exclaimed her offended friend, starting up, and putting
on her shawl with trembling hands—"I will not stay another moment
where I am not wanted."
Miss Foster's head had sunk upon her hand, perhaps she was too
deeply absorbed in her own feelings to notice Lucy's anger, till
suddenly raising her eyes, in which thick tears were gathering—she
watched her movements with a curious interest—but Lucy was
already at the door—and gasping a "good morning," she hurried
away, leaving her friend to the unpleasant thoughts she was
indulging.
It was not anger alone which led Lucy to leave the house so hastily,
for she was curious to see her pleasing companion of the night
before, if but for a moment. She was not disappointed, for, as she
opened the door, she perceived him standing on the other side of
the way.
Could he have seen her enter the house? and, might not his having
done so, been the reason of his early call on Miss Foster. Vanity is a
ready prompter; and she had not proceeded many steps before she
believed the delusive argument, and attributed her friend's warnings
to jealousy. She had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, before she
perceived Mr. Beauclerc crossing to her side of the way, and she
gave a bow and a smile, which proved a ready inducement for him
to join her. He looked so dejected, that she had not the heart to
check his intention of lounging by her side, and he was far too
courtly and ready in his manners to give such a meeting the least
appearance of awkwardness.
"You are acquainted with the lady of that house then?" he enquired,
after a slight pause in the conversation.
"Yes," said Lucy, smiling and looking at him, "and I suspect you
know her also."
"Do you know her well?" he said, slightly colouring.
"Oh, very intimately—she is a great friend of mine."
"You know all her secrets then?"
"Well, I dare say I do," she replied, smiling importantly; for, to
confess that she had a friend, and did not know all her secrets,
seemed a derogation from her own dignity; "but, I fear I shall not
know many more, for we have parted in anger."
"Indeed! can that be true—you in anger."
"Yes, yes," said Lucy, looking archly at him; "and what do you think
it could be about?"
"I have, indeed, no means of guessing," he replied, with an interest
which Lucy attributed rather to herself than her subject.
"About yourself, it was then?" said she, looking slightly aside.
"Impossible!" he exclaimed, delightedly; "have you then been
speaking of me?—and what did she say of me?"
"Nothing you would, perhaps, like to hear," she said, with the same
archness as before.
"And what part did you take?" said he, eagerly.
"Oh," she replied, laughing carelessly, "I never do things by halves—
so I defended you through thick and thin."
"Excellent girl," cried he, enthusiastically, taking her hand, and
pressing it warmly, "how can I ever thank you enough for this
kindness?"
"Prenez garde," said she, "gossippers are abroad, and there, I
declare, is Miss Lovelace's youngest sister going for her music lesson
—all Bath will say we are flirting."
"You know how to contradict such scandal by a word," said he; "but
that word, for my sake, you will not speak."
Lucy did not quite understand this last speech; but she did not like
to say so, and, therefore, murmured a rapid "Yes."
A slight pause followed; and then he resumed the conversation with
such a sudden flow of spirits, that Lucy very soon forgot everything
in the pleasure of listening to him, and even suffered him to
lengthen the walk by taking a longer route. At the entrance to
Sydney Place, he took leave of her, and she returned home, thinking
over everything he had said. They had only talked on general topics
after all; but then he spoke with a deference to her opinion which
was very pleasing. She was in very good humour with herself, and
resolved that, after leaving Miss Foster to cool for a week or so, she
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