"My friend cannot thank you, kind Miss Beaufort," cried Thaddeus,
with a look of gratitude that called the brightest roses to her
cheeks; "but I do from my heart!"
"Here it is! Pray, my dear lord, come along!" cried Butzou. Thaddeus,
seeing that his information was right, bowed to the ladies, and their
carriage drove off.
Though the wheels of Lady Dundas's coach rolled away from the
retreating figures of Thaddeus and his friend, the images of both
occupied the meditations of Euphemia and Miss Beaufort whilst,
_tete-?-tete_ and in silence, they made the circuit of the Park.
When the carriage again passed the spot on which the subject of their
thoughts had stood, Mary almost mechanically looked out towards the
gate.
"Is he gone yet?" asked Euphemia, sighing deeply.
Mary drew in her head with the quickness of conscious guilt; and
whilst a color stained her face, which of itself might have betrayed
her prevarication, she asked, "Who?"
"Mr. Constantine," replied Euphemia, with a second sigh. "Did you
remark, Mary, how gracefully he supported that sick old gentleman?
Was it not the very personification of Youth upholding the fainting
steps of Age? He put me in mind of the charming young prince, whose
name I forget, leading the old Belisarius."
"Yes," returned Mary ashamed of the momentary insincerity couched in
her former uncertain replying word, "Who?" yet still adding, while
trying to smile, "but some people might call our ideas enthusiasm.
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