I went off the scene at once, but when I returned to luncheon they were at it still.  And Eustace’s return with two steeds for Harold’s judgment renewed the subject with double vigour.  Dermot gave his counsel, and did not leave Arghouse without reiterating an invitation to the cousins to come to-morrow to his cottage at Biston, to be introduced to his stables, let doctors say what they might, and Eustace was in raptures at the distinguished acquaintance he fancied he had made for himself.  He had learnt something of Mr. Tracy’s sporting renown, and saw himself introduced to all the hunting world of the county, not to say of England.

It gave me a great deal to consider, knowing, as I did full well, that poor Dermot’s acquaintance was not likely to bring him into favour with society, even if it were not dangerous in itself.  And my poor mother would not have been delighted at my day, a thing I had totally forgotten in the pleasantness of having someone to talk to; for it was six weeks since I had spoken to anyone beyond the family, except Miss Woolmer.  Besides, it was Dermot!  And that was enough to move me in itself.

I think I have said that his father was an Irish landlord, who was shot at his own hall-door in his children’s infancy.  Lady Diana brought them back to her old neighbourhood, and there reigned over one of her brother’s villages, with the greatest respect and admiration from all, and viewed as a pattern matron, widow, and parent.  My mother was, I fancy, a little bit afraid of her, and never entirely at ease with her.  I know I was not, but she was so “particular” about her children, that it was a great distinction to be allowed to be intimate with them, and my mother was proud of my being their licensed playfellow, when Horsmans and Stympsons were held aloof.  But even in those days, when I heard the little Tracys spoken of as pattern children, I used to have an odd feeling of what it was to be behind the scenes, and know how much of their fame rested on Di.  I gloried in the knowledge how much more charming the other two were than anyone guessed, who thought them models of propriety.

In truth, Dermot did not keep that reputation much longer than his petticoats.  Ere long he was a pickle of the first order, equalling the sublime naughtiness of Holiday House, and was continually being sent home by private tutors, who could not manage him.  All the time I had a secret conviction that, if he had been my own mother’s son, she could have managed him, and he would never have even wished to do what she disapproved; but Lady Diana had no sympathy or warmth in her, and while she loved her children she fretted them, and never thawed nor unbent; and when she called in her brother’s support, Dermot’s nerves were driven frantic by the long harangues, and his relief was in antics which of course redoubled his offence.  After he had put crackers into his uncle’s boots,