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eams. His fancy became exalted to the highest pitch. He felt supremely happy. In this disposition he sought Mildred to claim her engagement. She could complain of no want of devotion now. Her partner was romantic, without sentimentalism; serious, and yet full of imagination. He was pleased, and he exerted himself to please. He allowed his natural enthusiasm to take its course. Mildred wondered no longer at the praises which Rereworth had bestowed upon his friend. A quadrille affords but scanty and inconvenient opportunity for conversation. But Randolph managed to protract the subsequent promenade. He even drew Mildred apart to that deserted window from which he had been gazing on the sky, and rehearsed some of the marvels of the astrologers, pointing out the planet which had attracted his attention. But he was suddenly awakened from his entrancement. Mrs. Pendarrel, leaning on Melcomb's arm, came to seek her daughter. "Mildred, my dear," she said, "I have sent to call our carriage." And she held her arm to the young lady, and bowed very loftily to Randolph. "The carriage is at the door, my dear," said a little man, bustling up with some officiousness. Randolph had retired a few paces, but not so far as to avoid hearing the first of the following words. It was Esther that spoke. "Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, I should be glad if you would ascertain who that gentleman is. A Mr. Morton, I understand. Hark, sir," she whispered, "do you see no likeness?" "Yes, my dear, certainly I do," said the obsequious husband. "To whom?" Randolph advanced at the same moment. "Spare your pains, sir," he said; "I am Randolph Trevethlan." Face to face, only two steps apart, with their eyes fixed on each other, stood the son and the lover of Henry Trevethlan. Esther's countenance was inscrutable. Her daughter clung to her arm, with cheeks and forehead flushed crimson, and glanced involuntarily at her late partner. Mr. Pendarrel had shrunk a little behind. Melcomb showed a nonchalant dislike to a scene. Randolph faced them, pale as death, his head thrown back, his breast heaving, his eyes flashing fire. But he recovered himself in an instant, bent one look of ineffable tenderness on Mildred, and rushed from the house. CHAPTER XII. Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. SHAKSPEARE. There was no sleep for Randolph that night. One momen
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