“She in all respects deserves it,” says my Lady.

“I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not comment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her.”

“That,” observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for he thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, “must be quite unnecessary.”

“Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester.  Now, my son is a very young man, and Rosa is a very young woman.  As I made my way, so my son must make his; and his being married at present is out of the question.  But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to him, I think it a piece of candour to say at once—­I am sure, Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me—­I should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold.  Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with him for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is.”

Not remain at Chesney Wold!  Make it a condition!  All Sir Leicester’s old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come in a shower upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as of his whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.

“Am I to understand, sir,” says Sir Leicester, “and is my Lady to understand”—­he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance on her sense—­“am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Lady to understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?”

“Certainly not, Sir Leicester,”

“I am glad to hear it.”  Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.

“Pray, Mr. Rouncewell,” says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester off with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly, “explain to me what you mean.”

“Willingly, Lady Dedlock.  There is nothing I could desire more.”

Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness, however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a picture of resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens with attention, occasionally slightly bending her head.

“I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my childhood about this house.  My mother has lived here half a century and will die here I have no doubt.  She is one of those examples—­perhaps as good a one as there is—­of love, and attachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well be proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides—­on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly.”