“Oh, don’t say that!” she answered.  “I have been so longing, you know, for years to go to the north of Italy, and now it seems as if there was a chance—­as if my mother would consent.”

“You know!” thought John.  “I know nothing of the kind, how should I?”

“It really does seem now as if we might leave England for a few months,” she continued.  “There is nothing at all to keep her here, if she could but think so.  You saw my brother the other day?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought he looked tolerably well again, did you not?”

“Yes; I think I did.”

“Then,” she continued persuasively, and with all serenity, several people being now very attentive to the conversation—­“then, if my mother should chance to see you, Mr. Mortimer, and should consult you about this, you will not be so unfriendly to me as to tell her that it is too late.  You must not, you know, Mr. Mortimer, because she thinks so much of your opinion.”

This was said in some slight degree more distinctly than usual, and with the repetition of his name, that no one might doubt whom she was addressing.

It made a decided impression, but on no one so much as on himself.  “What a fool I have been!” he thought; “in spite of appearances this has been very far from her thoughts, and perhaps annoyance at the ridiculous rumour is what makes her so much want to be off.”

He then entered with real interest into the matter, and before luncheon was over a splendid tour had been sketched out in the Austrian Tyrol, which he proved to demonstration was far better in the summer than Italy.  Justina was quite animated, and only hoped her mother would not object.  It was just as well she expressed doubts and fears on that head, for Lady Fairbairn had never in her life had a hint even that her daughter was dying to go on the Continent; and Justina herself had only decided that it was well to intend such a thing, not that it would be wise or necessary to carry the intention out.

She exerted herself, keeping most careful watch and guard over her voice and smile.  It was not easy for her to appear pleased when she felt piqued, and to feign a deep interest in the Austrian Tyrol, when she had not known, till that occasion, whereabouts on the map it might be found.  She was becoming tired and quite flushed when the opportune entrance of the baby—­that morsel of humanity with a large name—­diverted every one’s attention from her, and relieved her from further effort.

There is nothing so difficult as to make a good speech at a wedding or a christening without affecting somebody’s feelings.  Some people stand so much in fear of this, that they can hardly say anything.  Others enjoy doing it, and are dreaded accordingly; for, beside the pain of having one’s feelings touched, and being obliged to weep, there is the red nose that follows.

John, when he stood up to propose the health of his godson, St. George Mortimer Brandon (who luckily was sound asleep), had the unusual good-fortune to please and interest everybody (even the parents) without making any one cry.