‘Won’t you really tell me?’ he pleaded.

She put a corner of the letter in the box.  ‘Must I?’

All was done with the archest elegance:  the bewildering condescension of a Goddess to a boor.

‘I don’t say you must, you know:  but I should like to see it,’ returned Harry.

‘There!’ She showed him a glimpse of ‘Mrs.,’ cleverly concealing plebeian ‘Cogglesby,’ and the letter slid into darkness.  ’Are you satisfied?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry, wondering why he felt a relief at the sight of ‘Mrs.’ written on a letter by a lady he had only known half an hour.

‘And now,’ said she, ’I shall demand a boon of you, Mr. Harry.  Will it be accorded?’

She was hurriedly told that she might count upon him for whatever she chose to ask; and after much trifling and many exaggerations of the boon in question, he heard that she had selected him as her cavalier for the day, and that he was to consent to accompany her to the village church.

’Is it so great a request, the desire that you should sit beside a solitary lady for so short a space?’ she asked, noting his rueful visage.

Harry assured her he would be very happy, but hinted at the bother of having to sit and listen to that fool of a Parsley:  again assuring her, and with real earnestness, which the lady now affected to doubt, that he would be extremely happy.

‘You know, I haven’t been there for ages,’ he explained.

‘I hear it!’ she sighed, aware of the credit his escort would bring her in Beckley, and especially with Harry’s grandmama Bonner.

They went together to the village church.  The Countess took care to be late, so that all eyes beheld her stately march up the aisle, with her captive beside her.

Nor was her captive less happy than he professed he would be.  Charming comic side-play, at the expense of Mr. Parsley, she mingled with exceeding devoutness, and a serious attention to Mr. Parsley’s discourse.  In her heart this lady really thought her confessed daily sins forgiven her by the recovery of the lost sheep to Mr. Parsley’s fold.  The results of this small passage of arms were, that Evan’s disclosure at Fallow field was annulled in the mind of Harry Jocelyn, and the latter gentleman became the happy slave of the Countess de Saldar.

CHAPTER XVI

LEADS TO A SMALL SKIRMISH BETWEEN ROSE AND EVAN

Lady Jocelyn belonged properly to that order which the Sultans and the Roxalanas of earth combine to exclude from their little games, under the designation of blues, or strong-minded women:  a kind, if genuine, the least dangerous and staunchest of the sex, as poor fellows learn when the flippant and the frail fair have made mummies of them.  She had the frankness of her daughter, the same direct eyes and firm step:  a face without shadows, though no longer bright with youth.  It may be charged