Let Rose accuse him, and he would say, ’This is true, Miss Jocelyn—­what then?’ and behold Rose confused and dumb!  Let not another dare suspect it.  For the fire that had scorched him was in some sort healing, though horribly painful; but contact with the general air was not to be endured—­was death!  This, I believe, is common in cases of injury by fire.  So it befell that Evan, meeting Rose the next morning was playfully asked by her what choice he had made between the white and the red; and he, dropping on her the shallow eyes of a conventional smile, replied, that unable to decide and form a choice, he had thrown both away; at which Miss Jocelyn gave him a look in the centre of his brows, let her head slightly droop, and walked off.

‘She can look serious as well as grimace,’ was all that Evan allowed himself to think, and he strolled out on the lawn with the careless serenity of lovers when they fancy themselves heart-free.

Rose, whipping the piano in the drawing-room, could see him go to sit by Mrs. Evremonde, till they were joined by Drummond, when he left her and walked with Harry, and apparently shadowed the young gentleman’s unreflective face; after which Harry was drawn away by the appearance of that dark star, the Countess de Saldar, whom Rose was beginning to detest.  Jenny glided by William Harvey’s side, far off.  Rose, the young Queen of Friendship, was left deserted on her music-stool for a throne, and when she ceased to hammer the notes she was insulted by a voice that cried from below: 

‘Go on, Rose, it’s nice in the sun to hear you,’ causing her to close her performances and the instrument vigorously.

Rose was much behind her age:  she could not tell what was the matter with her.  In these little torments young people have to pass through they gain a rapid maturity.  Let a girl talk with her own heart an hour, and she is almost a woman.  Rose came down-stairs dressed for riding.  Laxley was doing her the service of smoking one of her rose-trees.  Evan stood disengaged, prepared for her summons.  She did not notice him, but beckoned to Laxley drooping over a bud, while the curled smoke floated from his lips.

‘The very gracefullest of chimney-pots-is he not?’ says the Countess to Harry, whose immense guffaw fails not to apprise Laxley that something has been said of him, for in his dim state of consciousness absence of the power of retort is the prominent feature, and when he has the suspicion of malicious tongues at their work, all he can do is silently to resent it.  Probably this explains his conduct to Evan.  Some youths have an acute memory for things that have shut their mouths.

The Countess observed to Harry that his dear friend Mr. Laxley appeared, by the cast of his face, to be biting a sour apple.

‘Grapes, you mean?’ laughed Harry.  ’Never mind! she’ll bite at him when he comes in for the title.’

‘Anything crude will do,’ rejoined the Countess.  ’Why are you not courting Mrs. Evremonde, naughty Don?’