Justina looked up feeling hurt, and also a little surprised.  Here she was, alone with John Mortimer for the first time in her life, and he was entertaining her with the praise of another woman; but she had a great deal of self-command, and she began almost at once to ask him some questions about his children.  She had a most excellent governess to recommend, and was it not true that they wanted a nurse also?  Yes, Mr. Mortimer did want both, and, as Justina had been writing to every friend she had about these functionaries, and had heard of several, she mentioned in each case the one she thought most suitable, and John, much pleased at the happy chance which brought such treasures before him, was deep in conversation about them when Emily reappeared, and then, to Justina’s great annoyance, he took down two addresses, and broke off the conversation with her instantly to say—­

“Emily, I am come to make the humblest apologies possible.  I find that I am absolutely obliged to go to London to-morrow on a matter that cannot be postponed.”

Justina was greatly mortified, but she answered instantly, and not Emily—­

“Ah, then of course you are come to put us off, Mr. Mortimer?”

There was no undue stress on the words “put us off,” but they suggested an idea to John that was new to him, and he would have felt called upon to act upon them, and renew the invitation, if Emily had not answered just as if she had heard not a syllable.

“We shall be sorry to miss you, John, when we come, but no doubt the children will be at home, and the girls.”

“Yes,” said John, slipping into this arrangement so easily, that how little he cared about her visit ought to have been at once made plain to Justina.  “Oh yes, and they will be so proud to entertain you.  I hope you will honour them, as was intended, by coming to lunch.”

“Yes, to be sure,” Emily answered with readiness.  “I hope the auriculas will not have begun to fade, they are Miss Fairbairn’s favourite flower.”

Then, to the intense mortification of Justina, John changed the subject, as if it had been one of no moment to him.  “I have been over to Wigfield-house this afternoon to pay my respects to Mrs. Brandon and her boy.”

“You found them well, I know, for we were there this morning.”

“Perfectly well,” said John, and he laughed.  “Giles was marching about in the garden with that astonishing infant lying flat on his arm, and with its long robes dangling down.  Dorothea (come out, I was told, for the first time) was walking beside him, and looking like a girl of sixteen.  I believe when I approached they were discussing to what calling in life they would bring up the youngster.  I was desired to remark his uncommon likeness to his father; told that he was considered a very fine child, and I should have had the privilege of looking at his little downy black head, but his mother decided not to accord it, lest he should take cold.”