‘He is not my Morsfield,’ said Aminta.

‘Beware of his having a tool in Paggy.  He boasts of letters.’

‘Mine?  Two:  and written to request him to cease writing to me.’

’He stops at nothing.  And, oh, my Simplicity! don’t you see you gave him a step in begging him to retire?  Morsfield has lived a good deal among our neighbours, who expound the physiology of women.  He anatomizes us; pulls us to pieces, puts us together, and then animates us with a breath of his “passion”—­sincere upon every occasion, I don’t doubt.  He spared me, although he saw I was engaged.  Perhaps it was because I ’m of no definite colour.  Or he thought I was not a receptacle for “passion.”  And quite true,—­Adder, the dear good fellow, has none.  Or where should we be?  On a Swiss Alp, in a chalet, he shooting chamois, and I milking cows, with ‘ah-ahio, ah-ahio,’ all day long, and a quarrel at night over curds and whey.  Well, and that ’s a better old pensioner’s limp to his end for “passion” than the foreign hotel bell rung mightily, and one of the two discovered with a dagger in the breast, and the other a don’t-look lying on the pavement under the window.  Yes, and that’s better than “passion” splitting and dispersing upon new adventures, from habit, with two sparks remaining of the fire.’

Aminta took Mrs. Lawrence’s hands.  ‘Is it a lecture?’

She was kissed.  ’Frothy gabble.  I’m really near to “passion” when I embrace you.  You’re the only one I could run away with; live with all alone, I believe.  I wonder men can see you while that silly lord of yours is absent, and not begin Morsfielding.  They’re virtuous if they resist.  Paggy tells the world . . . well?’ Aminta had reddened.

‘What does my aunt tell the world?’

Mrs. Lawrence laid her smoothing hand absently on a frill of lace fichu above a sternly disciplined bosom at half-heave.  ’I think I can judge now that you’re not much hurt by this wretched business of the presentation.  The little service I could do was a moral lesson to me on the subject of deuce-may-care antecedents.  My brother Tom, too, was always playing truant, as a boy.  It ‘s in the blood.’

She seemed to be teasing, and Aminta cried:  ’My aunt!  Let me hear.  She tells the world—?’

’Paggy? ah, yes.  Only that she says the countess has an exalted opinion of Mr. Secretary’s handwriting—­as witnessed by his fair copy of the Memoirs, of course.’

‘Poor woman!  How can she talk such foolishness!  I guessed it.’

’You wear a dark red rose when you’re guessing, ’ma mie,’—­French for, my Aminta.’

’But consider, Isabella, Mr. Weyburn has just had the heaviest of losses.  My aunt should spare mention of him.’

‘Matthew Weyburn! we both like the name.’  Mrs. Lawrence touched at her friend and gazed.  ’I’ve seen it on certain evenings—­crimson over an olive sky.  What it forebodes, I can’t imagine; but it’s the end of a lovely day.  They say it threatens rain, if it begins one.  It ’s an ominous herald.’