Young Moseley and her daughter, standing together at the open window, caught the attention of Lady Chatterton the moment she got a view of the house, and she entered with a good humor she had not felt since the disappointment in her late expedition in behalf of Catherine; for the gentleman she had had in view in this excursion had been taken up by another rover, acting on her own account, and backed by a little more wit and a good deal more money than what Kate could be fairly thought to possess.  Nothing further in that quarter offering in the way of her occupation, she turned her horses’ heads towards London, that great theatre on which there never was a loss for actors.  The salutations had hardly passed before, turning to John, she exclaimed, with what she intended for a most motherly smile, “What! not shooting this fine day, Mr. Moseley?  I thought you never missed a day in the season.”

“It is rather early yet, my lady,” said John, coolly, a little alarmed by the expression of her countenance.

“Oh!” continued the dowager, in the same strain, “I see how it is; the ladies have too many attractions for so gallant a young man as yourself.”  Now, as Grace, her own daughter, was the only lady of the party who could reasonably be supposed to have much influence over John’s movements—­a young gentleman seldom caring as much for his own as for other people’s sisters, this may be fairly set down as a pretty broad hint of the opinion the dowager entertained of the real state of things; and John saw it, and Grace saw it.  The former coolly replied, “Why, upon the whole, if you will excuse the neglect, I will try a shot this fine day,” In five minutes, Carlo and Rover were both delighted.  Grace kept her place at the window, from a feeling she could not define, and of which perhaps she was unconscious, until the gate closed, and the shrubbery hid the sportsman from her sight, and then she withdrew to her room to weep.

Had Grace Chatterton been a particle less delicate—­less retiring—­blessed with a managing mother, as she was, John Moseley would not have thought another moment about her.  But, on every occasion when the dowager made any of her open attacks, Grace discovered so much distress, so much unwillingness to second them, that a suspicion of a confederacy never entered his brain.  It is not to be supposed that Lady Chattelton’s manoeuvres were limited to the direct and palpable schemes we have mentioned; no—­these were the effervescence, the exuberance of her zeal; but as is generally the case, they sufficiently proved the ground-work of all her other machinations; none of the little artifices of such as placing—­of leaving alone—­of showing similarity of tastes:—­of compliments to the gentlemen, were neglected.—­This latter business she had contrived to get Catherine to take off her hands; but Grace could never pay a compliment in her life, unless changing of color, trembling, undulations of the bosom, and such natural movements can be so called; but she loved dearly to receive them from John Moseley.