I confess that the hand here writing is not insensible to the effects of that first glass of champagne.  The poetry of our Countess’s achievements waxes rich in manifold colours:  I see her by the light of her own pleas to Providence.  I doubt almost if the hand be mine which dared to make a hero play second fiddle, and to his beloved.  I have placed a bushel over his light, certainly.  Poor boy! it was enough that he should have tailordom on his shoulders:  I ought to have allowed him to conquer Nature, and so come out of his eclipse.  This shall be said of him:  that he can play second fiddle without looking foolish, which, for my part, I call a greater triumph than if he were performing the heroics we are more accustomed to.  He has steady eyes, can gaze at the right level into the eyes of others, and commands a tongue which is neither struck dumb nor set in a flutter by any startling question.  The best instances to be given that he does not lack merit are that the Jocelyns, whom he has offended by his birth, cannot change their treatment of him, and that the hostile women, whatever they may say, do not think Rose utterly insane.  At any rate, Rose is satisfied, and her self-love makes her a keen critic.  The moment Evan appeared, the sickness produced in her by the Countess passed, and she was ready to brave her situation.  With no mock humility she permitted Mrs. Shorne to place her in a seat where glances could not be interchanged.  She was quite composed, calmly prepared for conversation with any one.  Indeed, her behaviour since the hour of general explanation had been so perfectly well-contained, that Mrs. Melville said to Lady Jocelyn: 

’I am only thinking of the damage to her.  It will pass over—­this fancy.  You can see she is not serious.  It is mere spirit of opposition.  She eats and drinks just like other girls.  You can see that the fancy has not taken such very strong hold of her.’

‘I can’t agree with you,’ replied her ladyship.  ’I would rather have her sit and sigh by the hour, and loathe roast beef.  That would look nearer a cure.’

‘She has the notions of a silly country girl,’ said Mrs. Shorne.

‘Exactly,’ Lady Jocelyn replied.  ’A season in London will give her balance.’

So the guests were tolerably happy, or at least, with scarce an exception, open to the influences of champagne and music.  Perhaps Juliana was the wretchedest creature present.  She was about to smite on both cheeks him she loved, as well as the woman she despised and had been foiled by.  Still she had the consolation that Rose, seeing the vulgar mother, might turn from Evan:  a poor distant hope, meagre and shapeless like herself.  Her most anxious thoughts concerned the means of getting money to lockup Harry’s tongue.  She could bear to meet the Countess’s wrath, but not Evan’s offended look.  Hark to that Countess!

’Why do you denominate this a pic-nic, Lady Jocelyn?  It is in verity a fete!’