The poor show had its term.  The ladies fled to the boudoir sacred to grief.  Evan was whispered that he was to join them when he might, without seeming mysterious to the Count.  Before he reached them, they had talked tearfully over the clothes he should wear at Lymport, agreeing that his present foreign apparel, being black, would be suitable, and would serve almost as disguise, to the inhabitants at large; and as Evan had no English wear, and there was no time to procure any for him, that was well.  They arranged exactly how long he should stay at Lymport, whom he should visit, the manner he should adopt toward the different inhabitants.  By all means he was to avoid the approach of the gentry.  For hours Evan, in a trance, half stupefied, had to listen to the Countess’s directions how he was to comport himself in Lymport.

’Show that you have descended among them, dear Van, but are not of them.  Our beautiful noble English poet expresses it so.  You have come to pay the last mortal duties, which they will respect, if they are not brutes, and attempt no familiarities.  Allow none:  gently, but firmly.  Imitate Silva.  You remember, at Dona Risbonda’s ball?  When he met the Comte de Dartigues, and knew he was to be in disgrace with his Court on the morrow?  Oh! the exquisite shade of difference in Silva’s behaviour towards the Comte.  So finely, delicately perceptible to the Comte, and not a soul saw it but that wretched Frenchman!  He came to me:  “Madame,” he said, “is a question permitted?” I replied, “As-many as you please, M. le Comte, but no answers promised.”  He said:  “May I ask if the Courier has yet come in?”—­“Nay, M. le Comte,” I replied, “this is diplomacy.  Inquire of me, or better, give me an opinion on the new glace silk from Paris.”—­“Madame,” said he, bowing, “I hope Paris may send me aught so good, or that I shall grace half so well.”  I smiled, “You shall not be single in your hopes, M. le Comte.  The gift would be base that you did not embellish.”  He lifted his hands, French-fashion:  “Madame, it is that I have received the gift.”—­“Indeed!  M. le Comte.”—­“Even now from the Count de Saldar, your husband.”  I looked most innocently, “From my husband, M. le Comte?”—­“From him, Madame.  A portrait.  An Ambassador without his coat!  The portrait was a finished performance.”  I said:  “And may one beg the permission to inspect it?”—­“Mais,” said he, laughing:  “were it you alone, it would be a privilege to me.”  I had to check him.  “Believe me, M. le Comte, that when I look upon it, my praise of the artist will be extinguished by my pity for the subject.”  He should have stopped there; but you cannot have the last word with a Frenchman—­not even a woman.  Fortunately the Queen just then made her entry into the saloon, and his mot on the charity of our sex was lost.  We bowed mutually, and were separated.’ (The Countess employed her handkerchief.) ’Yes, dear Van! that is how you should behave.  Imply things.  With dearest Mama, of course, you are the dutiful son.  Alas! you must stand for son and daughters.  Mama has so much sense!  She will understand how sadly we are placed.  But in a week I will come to her for a day, and bring you back.’