“I’m very sorry you do if this is the use you make of your knowledge,” replied Mrs. Pinckney in an injured tone.  “She is in mourning, and does not require many dresses:  besides, Richard, no one preaches economy to me more than you do.  I’m sick of the very word,” petulantly.

“What position, really, is she supposed to occupy?”

“She is the governess,” said Mrs. Pinckney in a sulky tone.

“Now listen, Virginia.  I have seen that young girl darning stockings in the school-room and at the same time hearing the children’s lessons; I have seen her arrange the dinner-table, with the children clinging to her skirts; I have seen her with the keys, giving out the stores; I know she keeps your accounts; and I can readily comprehend where those clear, well-expressed letters came from, although signed by you, which I have frequently received in my character of guardian and executor.”

“You certainly don’t think I meant to deceive you as to the letters?”

“Oh no,” replied her brother-in-law:  “I don’t think you in the least deceitful, Virginia;” and in his own mind reflected, “’Hypocrisy is the homage which vice pays to virtue.’”

Nobody likes hypocrisy, to be sure, but Mrs. Pinckney did not take the trouble to veil her peccadilloes.  Easy and indolent as she was, being now thoroughly roused by his thinly-veiled contempt, she endeavored to be disagreeable in her turn.  With the most innocent air in the world she exclaimed, “I declare, Dick, I believe you’re in love with Miss Featherstone, although you like fair women—­”

“And she is dark,” he interrupted.

“Regular features—­”

“And her dear little nose is slightly retroussee; but you cannot deny, Virginia, that she has a most captivating air.”

“I’m fond of her, but I do not think her captivating.”  Mrs. Pinckney was now thoroughly out of temper.  She was not naturally envious, but she could be roused to envy.  “And so you’re in love with her?” satirically.

“How can I help it?” he returned with a mocking air.  “She has magnificent eyes, a bewildering smile:  then she has that je ne sais quoi, as our foreign friend would say.  There is no defining it, there is no assuming it.  To conclude, I consider Miss Featherstone dangerously attractive.”

“Just what I told her you were,” returned Mrs. Pinckney, who saw he was trying to tease her, and had recovered by this time her equanimity.  In spite of his phlegm he looked interested.  “You’d better take care and make no reference to the war, for she is furiously loyal, I can tell you,” said Mrs. Pinckney, recalling the conversation.  “Since when have you been in love with her?”

“From the very first moment I saw her, when she entered the dining-room, her cheeks brilliant from the cold, her lovely eyes, blinded by the light, peering through their long lashes, a little becoming embarrassment in her air as she saw your humble servant—­laden down with your bundles, and your children, as usual, clinging to her skirts.”