until she should have taught
herself to be very calm. But she had now begun to tell Mr. Wentworth
that she was extremely anxious. She was proceeding to develop this idea,
to enumerate the objects of her anxiety, when Felix came in.

Mr. Wentworth sat there, with his legs crossed, lifting his dry, pure
countenance from the Boston "Advertiser." Felix entered smiling, as if
he had something particular to say, and his uncle looked at him as if
he both expected and deprecated this event. Felix vividly expressing
himself had come to be a formidable figure to his uncle, who had not yet
arrived at definite views as to a proper tone. For the first time in
his life, as I have said, Mr. Wentworth shirked a responsibility; he
earnestly desired that it might not be laid upon him to determine how
his nephew's lighter propositions should be treated. He lived under an
apprehension that Felix might yet beguile him into assent to doubtful
inductions, and his conscience instructed him that the best form of
vigilance was the avoidance of discussion. He hoped that the pleasant
episode of his nephew's visit would pass away without a further lapse of
consistency.

Felix looked at Charlotte with an air of understanding, and then at Mr.
Wentworth, and then at Charlotte again. Mr. Wentworth bent his refined
eyebrows upon his nephew and stroked down the first page of the
"Advertiser." "I ought to have brought a bouquet," said Felix, laughing.
"In France they always do."

"We are not in France," observed Mr. Wentworth, gravely, while Charlotte
earnestly gazed at him.

"No, luckily, we are not in France, where I am afraid I should have
a harder time of it. My dear Charlotte, have you rendered me that
delightful service?" And Felix bent toward her as if some one had been
presenting him.

Charlotte looked at him with almost frightened eyes; and Mr. Wentworth
thought this might be the beginning of a discussion. "What is the
bouquet for?" he inquired, by way of turning it off.

Felix gazed at him, smiling. "Pour la demande!" And then, drawing up
a chair, he seated himself, hat in hand, with a kind of conscious
solemnity.

Presently he turned to Charlotte again. "My good Charlotte, my admirable
Charlotte," he murmured, "you have not played me false--you have not
sided against me?"

Charlotte got up, trembling extremely, though imperceptibly. "You must
speak to my father yourself," she said. "I think you are clever enough."

But Felix, rising