‘It appears,’ he remarked aloud to one of the Conley girls, ’that quinsey is needed before a joke is properly appreciated.’

‘I like fun,’ said she, but had not apparently discovered it.

What did that odious woman mean by perpetually talking about Sir Abraham?  The Countess intercepted a glance between her and the hated Juliana.  She felt it was a malignant conspiracy:  still the vacuous vulgar air of the woman told her that most probably she was but an instrument, not a confederate, and was only trying to push herself into acquaintance with the great:  a proceeding scorned and abominated by the Countess, who longed to punish her for her insolent presumption.  The bitterness of her situation stung her tenfold when she considered that she dared not.

Meantime the champagne became as regular in its flow as the Bull-dogs, and the monotonous bass of these latter sounded through the music, like life behind the murmur of pleasure, if you will.  The Countess had a not unfeminine weakness for champagne, and old Mr. Bonner’s cellar was well and choicely stocked.  But was this enjoyment to the Countess?—­this dreary station in the background!  ‘May I emerge?’ she as much as implored Providence.

The petition was infinitely tender.  She thought she might, or it may be that nature was strong, and she could not restrain herself.

Taking wine with Sir John, she said: 

’This bowing!  Do you know how amusing it is deemed by us Portuguese?  Why not embrace? as the dear Queen used to say to me.’

‘I am decidedly of Her Majesty’s opinion,’ observed Sir John, with emphasis, and the Countess drew back into a mingled laugh and blush.

Her fiendish persecutor gave two or three nods.  ‘And you know the Queen!’ she said.

She had to repeat the remark:  whereupon the Countess murmured, ‘Intimately.’

‘Ah, we have lost a staunch old Tory in Sir Abraham,’ said the lady, performing lamentation.

What did it mean?  Could design lodge in that empty-looking head with its crisp curls, button nose, and diminishing simper?  Was this pic-nic to be made as terrible to the Countess by her putative father as the dinner had been by the great Mel?  The deep, hard, level look of Juliana met the Countess’s smile from time to time, and like flimsy light horse before a solid array of infantry, the Countess fell back, only to be worried afresh by her perfectly unwitting tormentor.

‘His last days?—­without pain?  Oh, I hope so!’ came after a lapse of general talk.

‘Aren’t we getting a little funereal, Mrs. Perkins?’ Lady Jocelyn asked, and then rallied her neighbours.

Miss Carrington looked at her vexedly, for the fiendish Perkins was checked, and the Countess in alarm, about to commit herself, was a pleasant sight to Miss Carrington.

’The worst of these indiscriminate meetings is that there is no conversation,’ whispered the Countess, thanking Providence for the relief.