John Mortimer had perhaps rather prided himself on his penetration, his powers of good government, the order and respectability of his household, and other matters of that description.  He had been taught in rather an ignominious fashion that he had overvalued himself in those particulars.

He was always treated by strangers whom he employed with a great deal of respect and deference; but this was mainly owing to a somewhat commanding presence and a good deal of personal dignity.  When the same people got used to him, perceived the bonhomie of his character, his carelessness about money matters, and his easy household ways, they were sometimes known to take all the more advantage of him from having needlessly feared him at first.

He said to Giles, “It is very evident now that I must marry.  I owe it to the mother of my children, and in fact to them.”

Mrs. Brandon said this to Mrs. Walker when, the next day, these two ladies met, and were alone together, excepting for the presence of St. George Mortimer Brandon, which did not signify.  “The house might have been robbed,” she continued, “and the children burnt in their beds.”

“Giles told you this afterwards?”

“Yes.”

Emily looked uncomfortable.  “One never knows how men may discuss matters when they are alone.  I hope, if John ever asked advice of Giles, he would not——­”

Here a pause.

“He would not recommend any one in particular,” said Dorothea, looking down on her baby’s face.  “Oh no, I am certain he would not think of such a thing.  Besides, the idea that he had any one to suggest has, I know, never entered his head.”

This she said without looking at Emily, and in a matter-of-fact tone.  If one had discovered anything, and the other was aware of it, she could still here at least feel perfectly safe.  This sister of hers, even to her own husband, would never speak.

“And that was all?”

“No; Giles said he gave him various ludicrous particulars, and repeated, with such a sincere sigh, ‘I must marry—­it’s a dire necessity!’ that Giles laughed, and so did he.”

“Poor John!” said Emily, “there certainly was not much in his first marriage to tempt him into a second.  And so I suppose Giles encouraged him, saying, as he often does, that he had never known any happiness worth mentioning till he married.”

“Yes, dear,” said Dorothea, “and he answered, ’But you did not pitch yourself into matrimony like a man taking a header into a fathomless pool.  You were in love, old fellow, and I am not.  Why, I have not decided yet on the lady!’ He cannot mean, therefore, to marry forthwith, Emily; besides, it must be the literal truth that he has not even half unconsciously a real preference for any one, or he could not have talked so openly to Giles.  He does not even foresee any preference.”

“But I hope to help him to a preference very soon,” she thought, and added aloud, “Dear, you will stay and dine with us?”