“I can charge myself with very few acts of charity,” said he grimly.  “I am not out of bonds to bare justice.”

Mr. Phipps was in his sarcastic vein, and shot many a look askance at Cinderella in the sofa corner, with her plumed velvet hat lying on a chair beside her.  She had been transformed into a most beautiful princess, there was no denying that.  He had heard a confidential whisper respecting Mr. Cecil Burleigh, and had seen that gentleman—­a very handsome personage to play the part of prince in the story.  Mr. Phipps had curiosity, discernment, and a great shrewdness.  Bessie had a happy face, and was enjoying her day in her old home; but she would never be Cinderella in the nursery any more—­never the little sunburnt gypsy who delighted to wander in the Forest with the boys, and was nowhere so well pleased as when she might run wild.  He told her so; he wanted to prove her temper since her exaltation.

“I shall never be only twelve years old again, and that’s true,” said Bessie, with a sportive defiance exceedingly like her former self.  “But I may travel—­who knows how far and wide?—­and come home browner than any berry.  Grandpapa was a traveller once; so was my uncle Laurence in pursuit of antiquities; and my poor uncle Frederick—­you know he was lost in the Baltic?  The gypsy wildness is in the blood, but I shall always come back to the Forest to rest.”

“She will keep up that delusion in her own mind to the last,” said Mr. Phipps.  Then after an instant’s pause, as if purposely to mark the sequence of his thoughts, he asked, “Is that gentleman who is staying at Fairfield with you now, Mr. Cecil Burleigh, a Woldshire man or South country?”

“Woldshire,” said Bessie curtly; and the color mounted to her face at the boldness of her old friend’s insinuation.

Mr. Phipps admired her anger, and went on with great coolness:  “He has some reputation—­member for Norminster, I think you said?  The Fairfaxes used to be great in that part of the county fifty years ago.  And I suppose, Miss Fairfax, you can talk French now and play on the piano?”

Bessie felt that he was very impertinent, but she preserved her good-humor, and replied laughing, “Yes, Mr. Phipps, I can do a little of both, like other young ladies.”  Mr. Carnegie had now come in.

“The old piano is sadly out of tune, but perhaps, Bessie dear, you would give us a song before you go,” suggested her mother.

Bessie gracefully complied, but nobody thought much of her little French canzonette.  “It is but a tiny chirp, Bessie; we have better songs than that at home—­eh, mother?” said the doctor, and that was all the compliment she got on her performance.  Mr. Phipps was amused by her disconcerted air; already she was beyond the circle where plain speaking is the rule and false politeness the exception.  She knew that her father must be right, and registered a silent vow to sing no more unless in private.