“Benson returned it this morning,” he informed her.  “The stupid fellow took it away with him—­by mischance, I am bound to believe.”

It was nothing other than the old Note-book.  Lady Blandish turned over the leaves, and came upon the later jottings.

She read:  “A maker of Proverbs—­what is he but a narrow mind with the mouthpiece of narrower?”

“I do not agree with that,” she observed.  He was in no humour for argument.

“Was your humility feigned when you wrote it?”

He merely said:  “Consider the sort of minds influenced by set sayings.  A proverb is the half-way-house to an Idea, I conceive; and the majority rest there content:  can the keeper of such a house be flattered by his company?”

She felt her feminine intelligence swaying under him again.  There must be greatness in a man who could thus speak of his own special and admirable aptitude.

Further she read, “Which is the coward among us?—­He who sneers at the failings of Humanity!”

“Oh! that is true!  How much I admire that!” cried the dark-eyed dame as she beamed intellectual raptures.

Another Aphorism seemed closely to apply to him:  “There is no more grievous sight, as there is no greater perversion, than a wise man at the mercy of his feelings.”

“He must have written it,” she thought, “when he had himself for an example—­strange man that he is!”

Lady Blandish was still inclined to submission, though decidedly insubordinate.  She had once been fairly conquered:  but if what she reverenced as a great mind could conquer her, it must be a great man that should hold her captive.  The Autumn Primrose blooms for the loftiest manhood; is a vindictive flower in lesser hands.  Nevertheless Sir Austin had only to be successful, and this lady’s allegiance was his for ever.  The trial was at hand.

She said again:  “He is not coming to-night,” and the baronet, on whose visage a contemplative pleased look had been rising for a minute past, quietly added:  “He is come.”

Richard’s voice was heard in the hall.

There was commotion all over the house at the return of the young heir.  Berry, seizing every possible occasion to approach his Bessy now that her involuntary coldness had enhanced her value—­“Such is men!” as the soft woman reflected—­Berry ascended to her and delivered the news in pompous tones and wheedling gestures.  “The best word you’ve spoke for many a day,” says she, and leaves him unfee’d, in an attitude, to hurry and pour bliss into Lucy’s ears.

“Lord be praised!” she entered the adjoining room exclaiming, “we’re got to be happy at last.  They men have come to their senses.  I could cry to your Virgin and kiss your Cross, you sweet!”

“Hush!” Lucy admonished her, and crooned over the child on her knees.  The tiny open hands, full of sleep, clutched; the large blue eyes started awake; and his mother, all trembling and palpitating, knowing, but thirsting to hear it, covered him with her tresses, and tried to still her frame, and rocked, and sang low, interdicting even a whisper from bursting Mrs. Berry.