Justina was in many respects a pleasant woman.  She was a good daughter, she had a very good temper, serene, never peevish; she did not forget what was due to others, she was reasonable, and, on the whole, just.  She felt what a pity it was that Mr. Mortimer was so unwise.  She regretted this with a sincerity not disturbed by any misgiving.  Taking the deepest interest in herself, as every way worthy and desirable, she did for herself what she could, and really felt as if this was both a privilege and a duty.  Something like the glow of a satisfied conscience filled her mind when she reflected that to this end she had worked, and left nothing undone, just as such a feeling rises in some minds on so reflecting about efforts made for another person.  But with all her foibles, old people liked her, and her own sex liked her, for she was a comfortable person to be with; one whose good points attracted regard, and whose faults were remarkably well concealed.

With that last speech she bowled herself out of the imaginary game of ninepins, and the next stroke was made by Dorothea.

She went down to the long drawing-room, and found all her guests departed, excepting John Mortimer, who came up to take leave of her.  He smiled.  “I wanted to apologize,” he said, taking her hand, “(it was a great liberty), for the change I made in your table.”

“The change, did you say,” she answered, oh so softly! “or the changes?” And then she became suddenly shy, and withdrew her hand, which he was still holding; and he, drawing himself up to his full height, stood stock still for a moment as if lost in thought and in surprise.

It was such a very slight hint to him that two ladies had been concerned, but he took it,—­remembered that one of them was the sister of his host, and also that he had not been allowed to carry out his changes just as he had devised them.  “I asked Emily’s leave,” he said, “to take her in.”

“Oh, did you?” answered Dorothea, with what seemed involuntary interest, and then he took his leave.

“Why did I never think of this before?  I don’t believe there ever was such a fool in this world,” he said to himself, as he mounted his horse and rode off.  “Of course, if I were driven to it, Emily would be fifty times more suitable for me than that calm blond spinster.  Liberty is sweet, however, and I will not do it if I can help it.  The worst of it is, that Emily, of all the women of my acquaintance, is the only one who does not care one straw about me.  There’s no hurry—­I fancy myself making her an offer, and getting laughed at for my pains.”  Then John Mortimer amused himself with recollections of poor Fred Walker’s wooing, how ridiculous he had made himself, and how she had laughed at him, and yet, out of mere sweetness of nature, taken him.  “It’s not in her to be in love with any man,” he reflected; “and I suppose it’s not in me to be in love with any woman.  So far at least we might meet on equal ground.”