character threw him.  More dimly, my lord and the Welsh gentleman were put to the trial:  a tough one for these two men.  She did not proclaim the winner, but a momentary flutter of pity in the direction of Lord Fleetwood did as much.  She pitied him; for his presence at Esslemont betrayed an inclination; he was ignorant of his lady’s character, of how firm she could be to defy him and all the world, in her gratitude to the gentleman she thought of as her true friend, smiled at for his open nature,—­called by his Christian name.

The idea of a piece of information stinging Lord Fleetwood, the desire to sting, so as to be an instrument of retribution (one of female human nature’s ecstasies); and her, abstaining, that she, might not pain the lord who had been generous to her sister Sally, made the force in Madge’s breast which urges to the gambling for the undeveloped, entitled prophecy.  She kept it low and felt it thrill.

Lord Fleetwood, chatted; Madge had him wincing.  He might pull the cover off the child’s face carelessly—­he looked at the child.  His look at the child was a thought of the mother.  If he thought of the mother, he would be wanting to see her.  If he heard her call a gentleman by his Christian name, and heard the gentleman say ‘Carinthia’ my lord would begin to shiver at changes.  Women have to do unusual things when they would bring that outer set to human behaviour.  Perhaps my lord would mount the coach-box and whip his horses away, adieu forever.  His lady would not weep.  He might, perhaps, command her to keep her mouth shut from gentlemen’s Christian names, all except his own.  His lady would not obey.  He had to learn something of changes that had come to others as well as to himself.  Ah, and then would he dare hint, as base men will?  He may blow foul smoke on her, she will shine out of it.  He has to learn what she is, that is his lesson; and let him pray all night and work hard all day for it not to be too late.  Let him try to be a little like Mr. Woodseer, who worships the countess, and is hearty with the gentleman she treats as her best of friends.  There is the real nobleman.

Fleetwood chatted on airily.  His instincts were duller than those of the black-browed girl, at whom he gazed for idle satisfaction of eye from time to time while she replied demurely and maintained her drama of, the featureless but well-distinguished actors within her bosom,—­a round, plump bust, good wharfage and harbourage, he was thinking.  Excellent harbourage, supposing the arms out in pure good-will.  A girl to hold her voyager fast and safe!  Men of her class had really a capital choice in a girl like this.  Men of another class as well, possibly, for temporary anchorage out midchannel.  No?—­possibly not.  Here and there a girl is a Tartar.  Ines talked of her as if she were a kind of religious edifice and a doubt were sacrilege.  She could impress the rascal:  girls have their arts for reaching the holy end, and still they may have a welcome for a foreign ship.