r had said.
She accepted his invitation, and shortly after breakfast went upstairs
to get ready. It was a fine, bright, April morning, though the air was
cold, and the ground somewhat damp; so she put on her boa and strong
boots, and sallied forth with Lord Kilcullen; not exactly in a good
humour, but still feeling that she could not justly be out of humour
with him. At the same moment, Lady Selina knocked at her father's door,
with the intention of explaining to him how impossible it was that
Fanny should be persuaded to marry her brother. Poor Lord Cashel! his
life, at that time, was certainly not a happy one.

The two cousins walked some way, nearly in silence. Fanny felt very
little inclined to talk, and even Kilcullen, with all his knowledge of
womankind--with all his assurance, had some difficulty in commencing
what he had to get said and done that morning.

"So Grey Abbey will once more sink into its accustomed dullness," said
he. "Cokely went yesterday, and Tierney and the Ellisons go to-day.
Don't you dread it, Fanny?"

"Oh, I'm used to it: besides, I'm one of the component elements of the
dullness, you know. I'm a portion of the thing itself: it's you that
must feel it."

"I feel it? I suppose I shall. But, as I told you before, the physic to
me was not nearly so nauseous as the sugar. I'm at any rate glad to get
rid of such sweetmeats as the bishop and Mrs Ellison;" and they were
both silent again for a while.

"But you're not a portion of the heaviness of Grey Abbey, Fanny," said
he, referring to what she had said. "You're not an element of its
dullness. I don't say this in flattery--I trust nothing so vile as
flattery will ever take place between us; but you know yourself that
your nature is intended for other things; that you were not born to
pass your life in such a house as this, without society, without
excitement, without something to fill your mind. Fanny, you can't be
happy here, at Grey Abbey."

Happy! thought Fanny to herself. No, indeed, I'm not happy! She didn't
say so, however; and Kilcullen, after a little while, went on speaking.

"I'm sure you can't be comfortable here. You don't feel it, I dare say,
so intolerable as I do; but still you have been out enough, enough in
the world, to feel strongly the everlasting do-nothingness of this
horrid place. I wonder what possesses my father, that he does not go
to London--for your sake if for no one else's. It's not just of him to
coop you up