Weyburn was roused:  ’I think you would like Lady Ormont, if you knew her, my lady.’

’The chances of my liking the young woman are not in the dice-box.  You call her Lady Ormont:  you are not one of the servants.  Don’t call her Lady Ormont to me.’

‘It is her title, Lady Charlotte.’  She let fly a broadside at him.

’You are one of the woman’s dupes.  I thought you had brains.  How can you be the donkey not to see that my brother Rowsley, Lord Ormont, would never let a woman, lawfully bearing his name, go running the quadrille over London in couples with a Lady Staines and a Mrs. Lawrence Finchley, Lord Adderwood, and that man Morsfield, who boasts of your Lady Ormont, and does it unwhipped—­tell me why?  Pooh, you must be the poorest fool born to suppose it possible my brother would allow a man like that man Morsfield to take his wife’s name in his mouth a second time.  Have you talked much with this young person?’

‘With Lady Ormont?  I have had the honour occasionally.’

’Stick to the title and write yourself plush-breech.  Can’t you be more than a footman?  Try to be a man of the world; you’re old enough for that by now.  I know she ’s good-looking; the whole tale hangs on that.  You needn’t be singing me mooncalf hymn tunes of “Lady Ormont, Lady Ormont,” solemn as a parson’s clerk; the young woman brought good looks to market; and she got the exchange she had a right to expect.  But it ’s not my brother Rowsley’s title she has got—­except for footmen and tradesmen.  When there’s a true Countess of Ormont!.....  Unless my brother has cut himself from his family.  Not he.  He’s not mad.’

They passed through Olmer park-gates.  Lady Charlotte preceded him, and she turned, waiting for him to rejoin her.  He had taken his flagellation in the right style, neither abashed nor at sham crow:  he was easy, ready to converse on any topic; he kept the line between supple courtier and sturdy independent; and he was a pleasant figure of a young fellow.  Thinking which, a reminder that she liked him drew her by the road of personal feeling, as usual with her, to reflect upon another, and a younger, woman’s observing and necessarily liking him too.

‘You say you fancy I should like the person you call Lady Ormont?’

‘I believe you would, my lady.’

‘Are her manners agreeable?’

‘Perfect; no pretension.’

’Ah! she sings, plays—­all that?

‘She plays the harp and sings.’

‘You have heard her?’

‘Twice.’

‘She didn’t set you mewing?’

‘I don’t remember the impulse; at all events, it was restrained.’

’She would me; but I’m an old woman.  I detest their squalling and strumming.  I can stand it with Italians on the boards:  they don’t, stop conversation.  She was present at that fencing match where you plucked a laurel?  I had an account of it.  I can’t see the use of fencing in this country.  Younger women can, I dare say.  Now, look.  If we’re to speak of her, I can’t call her Lady Ormont, and I don’t want to hear you.  Give me her Christian name.’