’Mama is such an Epicurean!  I really think she is worse than Papa.  This disgraceful letter looks like Ferdinand’s writing, and she tells him so; and, Evan! will you believe that instead of being certain it’s impossible any gentleman could do such a thing, she tells Ferdinand she shall feel more comfortable if she doesn’t see him for some time?  Poor Ferdinand!  He has had so much to bear!’

Too sure of his darling to be envious now of any man she pitied, Evan said, ‘I would forfeit my hand on his innocence!’

‘And so would I,’ echoed Rose.  ‘Come to him with me, dear.  Or no,’ she added, with a little womanly discretion, ’perhaps it would not be so well—­you’re not very much cast down by what happened at dinner?’

‘My darling!  I think of you.’

’Of me, dear?  Concealment is never of any service.  What there is to be known people may as well know at once.  They’ll gossip for a month, and then forget it.  Your mother is dreadfully outspoken, certainly; but she has better manners than many ladies—­I mean people in a position:  you understand me?  But suppose, dear, this had happened, and I had said nothing to Mama, and then we had to confess?  Ah, you’ll find I’m wiser than you imagine, Mr. Evan.’

‘Haven’t I submitted to somebody’s lead?’

’Yes, but with a sort of “under protest.”  I saw it by the mouth.  Not quite natural.  You have been moody ever since—­just a little.  I suppose it’s our manly pride.  But I’m losing time.  Will you promise me not to brood over that occurrence.?  Think of me.  Think everything of me.  I am yours; and, dearest, if I love you, need you care what anybody else thinks?  We will soon change their opinion.’

‘I care so little,’ said Evan, somewhat untruthfully, ’that till you return I shall go and sit with my mother.’

’Oh, she has gone.  She made her dear old antiquated curtsey to Mama and the company.  “If my son has not been guilty of deception, I will leave him to your good pleasure, my lady.”  That’s what she said.  Mama likes her, I know.  But I wish she didn’t mouth her words so precisely:  it reminds me of—­’ the Countess, Rose checked herself from saying.  ’Good-bye.  Thank heaven! the worst has happened.  Do you know what I should do if I were you, and felt at all distressed?  I should keep repeating,’ Rose looked archly and deeply up under his eyelids, “’I am the son of a tradesman, and Rose loves me,” over and over, and then, if you feel ashamed, what is it of?’

She nodded adieu, laughing at her own idea of her great worth; an idea very firmly fixed in her fair bosom, notwithstanding.  Mrs. Melville said of her, ‘I used to think she had pride.’  Lady Jocelyn answered, ’So she has.  The misfortune is that it has taken the wrong turning.’