“And can you not convert the Doctor?”

“I think that would be impossible; Dr. Vavasour always held to his own opinions.  Will you have some more tea?”

“No more, thank you.  I should have thought, Miss Leslie, you might have converted any one; I cannot fancy any arguments you might use being other than irresistible.”

“Mr. Morris,” said Mrs. Vavasour, breaking in upon this little tete-a-tete, “have you seen those curious spiders that my brother brought home from South America?  You might fetch Uncle Horace’s case, Madge, and show them to Mr. Morris; they are worth looking at, I assure you.”

An hour later this little party had dispersed.  Mr. Morris had taken leave, Maria had gone to dress for dinner, Madge to her school-room; Dr. Vavasour and his wife were left alone.

“I had a letter from Horace this afternoon,” she said, taking it out of her pocket, and giving it to the Doctor to read.  “What do you say to our having Miss Linders here for a time?  I have often thought of asking her, and this will be a good opportunity.  Do you object?”

“Not in the least, my dear; she is some sort of a cousin of yours; is she not?”

“A remote one,” said Mrs. Vavasour, smiling.  “However, I am very willing to make her acquaintance, especially if the poor girl wants a change.  I agree with Horace, that a too prolonged course of Aunt Barbara must be trying.”

“Why, I thought Mrs. Treherne was everything that was perfect and admirable; she has never troubled us much with her society, but I am sure I understood from you——­”

“So she is,” said his wife, interrupting him; “that is just it—­Aunt Barbara is quite perfect, a kind of ideal gentlewoman in cultivation, and refinement, and piety, and everything else; but she is, without exception, the most alarming person I know.”

“Well, let Miss Linders come by all means,” repeated the Doctor.  “Isn’t it nearly dinner-time?  I am starving.  I have been twenty miles round the country to-day, and when I come in I find that long-legged fellow Morris philandering away, and have to listen to his vacuous nonsense for an hour.  Whatever brings him here so often?  He ought to have something better to do with his time than to be idling it away over afternoon tea.  Is he looking after Madge?”

“Poor little Madge!” answered Mrs. Vavasour, laughing.  “No, I wish I could think Mr. Morris had nothing more serious on hand:  but it is much more likely to be Maria.”

“Maria!” cried the doctor; “is that what the man is up to?  But surely he knows she is engaged to Horace.”

“Indeed I much doubt it,” Mrs. Vavasour answered; “the engagement was to be a secret, and I am not aware that any one knows of it but ourselves, and Aunt Barbara—­and Miss Linders probably—­and if Maria will not enlighten Mr. Morris as to how matters stand, I do not see what any one else can do.”

“Then Molly is very much to blame; and I have a great mind to tell her so.”