‘Do you remember the offender’s name?’ the Countess of Ormont said; and Weyburn said—­

’Oh yes, I ‘ve not forgotten the incident.’

Her eyes, wherein the dead time hung just above the underlids, lingered, as with the wish for him to name the name.

She said:  ’I am curious to hear how you would treat a case of that sort.  Would you preach to the boys?

’Ten words at most.  The right assumption is that both fellows were to blame.  I fancy the proper way would be to appeal to the naughty girls for their opinion as to how the dispute should be decided.’

‘You impose too much on them.  And you are not speaking seriously.’

’Pardon me, I am.  I should throw myself into the mind of a naughty girl—­supposing none of these at hand—­and I should let it be known that my eyes were shut to proceedings, always provided the weapons were not such as would cause a shock of alarm in female bosoms.’

‘You would at your school allow it to be fought out?’

’Judging by the characters of the boys.  If they had heads to understand, I would try them at their heads.  Otherwise they are the better, they come round quicker to good blood, at their age—­I speak of English boys—­for a little hostile exercise of their fists.  Well, for one thing, it teaches them the value of sparring.’

’I must imagine I am not one of the naughty sisterhood,—­for I cannot think I should ever give consent to fighting of any description, unless for the very best of reasons,’ said the countess.

His eyes were at the trick of the quarter-minute’s poising.  Her lids fluttered.  ‘Oh, I don’t mean to say I was one of the good,’ she added.

At the same time her enlivened memory made her conscious of a warning, that she might, as any woman might, so talk on of past days as to take, rather more than was required of the antidote she had come for.

The antidote was excellent; cooling, fortifying; ‘quite a chalybeate,’ her aunt would say, and she was thankful.  Her heart rose on a quiet wave of the thanks, and pitched down to a depth of uncounted fathoms.  Aminta was unable to tell herself why.

Mrs. Lawrence Finchley had been announced.  On her way to the drawing room Aminta’s brain fell upon a series of dots, that wound along a track to the point where she accused herself of a repented coquettry—­cause of the burning letters she was doomed to receive and could not stop without rousing her lion.  She dotted backwards; there was no sign that she had been guilty of any weakness other than the almost—­at least, in design—­innocent first move, which had failed to touch Lord Ormont in the smallest degree.  Never failure more absolute!

She was about to inquire of her bosom’s oracle whether she greatly cared now.  For an answer, her brain went dotting along from Mr. Cuper’s school, and a boy named Abner there, and a boy named Matey Weyburn, who protected the little Jew-boy, up to Mr. Abner in London, who recommended him in due season to various acquaintances; among them to Lady Charlotte Eglett.  Hence the introduction to Lord Ormont.  How little extraordinary circumstances are, if only we trace them to the source!