Chapter 27 - Page 2

wonder, in after life. But, which way are you
walking?"--slipping an arm in mine--"if up, I'll take a short turn
with you. There's scarce a soul in town, at this season; but you'll
see prodigiously fine girls in Broadway, at this hour, notwithstanding
--those that belong to the other sets, you know; those that belong to
families that can't get into the country among the leaves. Yes, as I
was saying, one scarce knows himself, after twenty. Now, I can hardly
recall a taste, or an inclination, that I cherished in my teens, that
has not flown to the winds. Nothing is permanent in boyhood--we grow
in our persons, and our minds, sentiments, affections, views, hopes,
wishes, and ambition; all take new directions."

"This is not very flattering, Rupert, to one whose acquaintance with
you may be said to be altogether boyish."

"Oh! of course I don't mean _that._ Habit keeps all right in such
matters; and I dare say I shall always be as much attached to you, as
I was in childhood. Still, we are on diverging lines, now, and cannot
for ever remain boys."

"You have told me nothing of the rest," I said, half choked, in my
eagerness to hear of the girls, and yet unaccountably afraid to ask. I
believe I dreaded to hear that Lucy was married. "How, and where is
Grace?"

"Oh! Grace!--yes, I forgot her, to my shame, as you would naturally
wish to inquire. Why, my dear _Captain,_ to be as frank as one
ought with so old an acquaintance, your sister is not in a good way,
I'm much afraid; though I've not seen her in an age. She was down
among us in the autumn, but left town for the holidays, for them she
insisted on keeping at Clawbonny, where she said the family had always
kept them, and away she went. Since then, she has not returned, but I
fear she is far from well. You know what a fragile creature Grace ever
has been--so American!--Ah! Wallingford! our females have no
constitutions--charming as angels, delicate as fairies, and all that;
but not to be compared to the English women in constitutions."

I felt a torrent of fire rushing through my blood, and it was with
difficulty I refrained from hurling the heartless scoundrel who leaned
on my arm, into the ditch. A moment of reflection, however, warned me
of the precipice on which I stood. He was Mr. Hardinge's son, Lucy's
brother; and I had no proofs that he had ever induced Grace to think
he loved her. It was so easy for those who had been educated as we
four had been, to be deceived on such a point, that I felt it unsafe
to do anything precipitately. Friendship, _habit_, as Rupert
expressed it, might so easily be mistaken for the fruits of passion,
that one might well be deceived. Then it was