“And with persons of decided tastes,” added Lady Busshe.

“I am really very unhappy,” she protested to Clara.

Sir Willoughby dropped Laetitia; Clara’s look of a sedate resolution to preserve silence on the topic of the nuptial gifts made a diversion imperative.

“Your porcelain was exquisitely chosen, and I profess to be a connoisseur,” he said.  “I am poor in Old Saxony, as you know; I can match the country in Savres, and my inheritance of China will not easily be matched in the country.”

“You may consider your Dragon vases a present from young Crossjay,” said De Craye.

“How?”

“Hasn’t he abstained from breaking them? the capital boy!  Porcelain and a boy in the house together is a case of prospective disaster fully equal to Flitch and a fly.”

“You should understand that my friend Horace—­whose wit is in this instance founded on another tale of a boy—­brought us a magnificent piece of porcelain, destroyed by the capsizing of his conveyance from the station,” said Sir Willoughby to Lady Busshe.

She and Lady Culmer gave out lamentable Ohs, while Miss Eleanor and Miss Isabel Patterne sketched the incident.  Then the lady visitors fixed their eyes in united sympathy upon Clara:  recovering from which, after a contemplation of marble, Lady Busshe emphasized, “No, you do not love porcelain, it is evident, Miss Middleton.”

“I am glad to be assured of it,” said Lady Culmer.

“Oh, I know that face:  I know that look,” Lady Busshe affected to remark rallyingly:  “it is not the first time I have seen it.”

Sir Willoughby smarted to his marrow.  “We will rout these fancies of an overscrupulous generosity, my dear Lady Busshe.”

Her unwonted breach of delicacy in speaking publicly of her present, and the vulgar persistency of her sticking to the theme, very much perplexed him.  And if he mistook her not, she had just alluded to the demoniacal Constantia Durham.

It might be that he had mistaken her:  he was on guard against his terrible sensitiveness.  Nevertheless it was hard to account for this behaviour of a lady greatly his friend and admirer, a lady of birth.  And Lady Culmer as well!—­likewise a lady of birth.  Were they in collusion? had they a suspicion?  He turned to Laetitia’s face for the antidote to his pain.

“Oh, but you are not one yet, and I shall require two voices to convince me,” Lady Busshe rejoined, after another stare at the marble.

“Lady Busshe, I beg you not to think me ungrateful,” said Clara.

“Fiddle!—­gratitude! it is to please your taste, to satisfy you.  I care for gratitude as little as for flattery.”

“But gratitude is flattering,” said Vernon.

“Now, no metaphysics, Mr. Whitford.”

“But do care a bit for flattery, my lady,” said De Craye. “’Tis the finest of the Arts; we might call it moral sculpture.  Adepts in it can cut their friends to any shape they like by practising it with the requisite skill.  I myself, poor hand as I am, have made a man act Solomon by constantly praising his wisdom.  He took a sagacious turn at an early period of the dose.  He weighed the smallest question of his daily occasions with a deliberation truly oriental.  Had I pushed it, he’d have hired a baby and a couple of mothers to squabble over the undivided morsel.”