In this state of tantalizing darkness and conjecture I should have
departed, had not Cousin Monica quite spontaneously relieved me.
The night before our departure she sat with us in our room, chatting a
little farewell gossip.
'And what do you think of Ilbury?' she asked.
'I think him clever and accomplished, and amusing; but he sometimes appears
to me very melancholy--that is, for a few minutes together--and then, I
fancy, with an effort, re-engages in our conversation.'
'Yes, poor Ilbury! He lost his brother only about five months since, and
is only beginning to recover his spirits a little. They were very much
attached, and people thought that he would have succeeded to the title,
had he lived, because Ilbury is _difficile_--or a philosopher--or a _Saint
Kevin_; and, in fact, has begun to be treated as a premature old bachelor.'
'What a charming person his sister, Lady Mary, is. She has made me promise
to write to her,' I said, I suppose--such hypocrites are we--to prove to
Cousin Knollys that I did not care particularly to hear anything more about
him.
'Yes, and so devoted to him.
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