As they went into the dining-room, however, he made a sign to his daughter, whom he had cautioned before, and whispered to Wilton, “Of course, we must not talk of these things before the servants.”

All that had passed placed Wilton now in a far different situation with the Duke and his daughter from that in which he had ever stood before.  His mind was perfectly at ease with them, and the relief had its natural effect on his conversation:  all the treasures of his mind, all the high feelings of his heart, he knew might be displayed fearlessly.  He did not, indeed, seek to bring those treasured feelings forward; he did not strive to shine, as it is called, for that striving must in itself always give a want of ease.  But poor, indeed, must be the mind, dull and slow the imagination, which, out of the ordinary things of life—­ay! even out of the every-day conversation of beings inferior to itself—­does not naturally and easily derive immense, unfathomable currents of thought, combinations of fancy, of feeling, and of reflection, which only want the licence of the will to flow on and sparkle as they go.  It is, that the Will refuses that licence when we are with those that we despise or dislike:  it is, that we voluntarily shut the flood-gates, and will not allow the streams to rush forth.  But with Wilton it was very, very different now:  he was in the presence of one whose eye was sunshine to him, whose mind was of an equal tone with his own; and there was besides in his bosom that strong passion in its strongest form which gives to everything it mingles with its own depth, and intensity, and power—­which, like a mountain torrent, suddenly poured into the bed of some summer rivulet, changes it at once in force, in speed, in depth—­that passion which has made dumb men eloquent, and cowards brave.

Thus, though the conversation began with ordinary subjects, touched but upon matters of taste and amusement, and approached deeper feelings only as a deviation from its regular course, yet at every turn it took, Wilton’s mind displayed its richness and its power; till the Duke, who had considerable taste and natural feeling, as well as high cultivation of mind, looked with surprise and admiration towards his daughter; and every now and then Laura herself, almost breathless with mingled feelings of pleasure, pride, and affection, turned her eyes upon her father, and marked his sensations with a happy smile.

And yet it was all so natural, so easy, so unaffected, that one felt there was neither effort nor presumption.  There was nothing of what the vulgar mass of common society call eloquence about it; but there was the true eloquence, which by a single touch wakes the sound that we desire to produce in the heart of another:  which by one bright instantaneous flash lights up, to the perception of every one around, each point that we wish them to behold.  Eloquence consists not in many words, but in few words:  the thoughts, the associations, the images, may be many, but the acme of eloquence is in the rapidity of their expression.