a wig!  Oh, horror! total extinction is better than to rise again in a wig!  But you are young, and play with hair.  But I was saying, I went to see the Jocelyns.  I was introduced to Sir Franks and his lady and the wealthy grandmother.  And I have an invitation for you, Evan—­you unmannered boy, that you do not bow!  A gentle incline forward of the shoulders, and the eyes fixed softly, your upper lids drooping triflingly, as if you thanked with gentle sincerity, but were indifferent.  Well, well, if you will not!  An invitation for you to spend part of the autumn at Beckley Court, the ancestral domain, where there will be company the nobles of the land!  Consider that.  You say it was bold in me to face them after that horrible man committed us on board the vessel?  A Harrington is anything but a coward.  I did go and because I am devoted to your interests.  That very morning, I saw announced in the paper, just beneath poor Andrew’s hand, as he held it up at the breakfasttable, reading it, I saw among the deaths, Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay, Baronet, of quinsy!  Twice that good man has come to my rescue!  Oh!  I welcomed him as a piece of Providence!  I turned and said to Harriet, “I see they have put poor Papa in the paper.”  Harriet was staggered.  I took the paper from Andrew, and pointed it to her.  She has no readiness.  She has had no foreign training.  She could not comprehend, and Andrew stood on tiptoe, and peeped.  He has a bad cough, and coughed himself black in the face.  I attribute it to excessive bad manners and his cold feelings.  He left the room.  I reproached Harriet.  But, oh! the singularity of the excellent fortune of such an event at such a time!  It showed that our Harrington-luck had not forsaken us.  I hurried to the Jocelyns instantly.  Of course, it cleared away any suspicions aroused in them by that horrible man on board the vessel.  And the tears I wept for Sir Abraham, Evan, in verity they were tears of deep and sincere gratitude!  What is your mouth knitting the corners at?  Are you laughing?’

Evan hastily composed his visage to the melancholy that was no counterfeit in him just then.

‘Yes,’ continued the Countess, easily reassured, ’I shall ever feel a debt to Sir Abraham Harrington, of Torquay.  I dare say we are related to him.  At least he has done us more service than many a rich and titled relative.  No one supposes he would acknowledge poor Papa.  I can forgive him that, Evan!’ The Countess pointed out her finger with mournful and impressive majesty, ’As we look down on that monkey, people of rank and consideration in society look on what poor dear Papa was.’

This was partly true, for Jacko sat on a chair, in his favourite attitude, copied accurately from the workmen of the establishment at their labour with needle and thread.  Growing cognizant of the infamy of his posture, the Countess begged Evan to drive him out of her sight, and took a sniff at her smelling-bottle.