‘What is it, aunt?’ Mrs. Fiske feebly inquired.

’A gentleman, I suppose!  He wouldn’t take an order if it was offered.  Upon my word, when tailors think of winning heiresses it’s time we went back to Adam and Eve.’

‘Do you mean Evan, aunt?’ interposed Mrs. Fiske, who probably did not see the turns in her aunt’s mind.

‘There—­read for yourself,’ said Mrs. Mel, and left her with the letter.

Mrs. Fiske read that Mr. Goren had been astonished at Evan’s non-appearance, and at his total silence; which he did not consider altogether gentlemanly behaviour, and certainly not such as his father would have practised.  Mr. Goren regretted his absence the more as he would have found him useful in a remarkable invention he was about to patent, being a peculiar red cross upon shirts—­a fortune to the patentee; but as Mr. Goren had no natural heirs of his body, he did not care for that.  What affected him painfully was the news of Evan’s doings at a noble house, Beckley Court, to wit, where, according to the report of a rich young gentleman friend, Mr. Raikes (for whose custom Mr. Goren was bound to thank Evan), the youth who should have been learning the science of Tailoring, had actually passed himself off as a lord, or the son of one, or something of the kind, and had got engaged to a wealthy heiress, and would, no doubt, marry her if not found out.  Where the chances of detection were so numerous, Mr. Goren saw much to condemn in the idea of such a marriage.  But ‘like father like son,’ said Mr. Goren.  He thanked the Lord that an honest tradesman was not looked down upon in this country; and, in fact, gave Mrs. Mel a few quiet digs to waken her remorse in having missed the man that he was.

When Mrs. Fiske met her aunt again she returned her the letter, and simply remarked:  ‘Louisa.’

Mrs. Mel nodded.  She understood the implication.

The General who had schemed so successfully to gain Evan time at Beckley Court in his own despite and against a hundred obstructions, had now another enemy in the field, and one who, if she could not undo her work, could punish her.  By the afternoon coach, Mrs. Mel, accompanied by Dandy her squire, was journeying to Fallow field, bent upon things.  The faithful squire was kept by her side rather as a security for others than for, his particular services.  Dandy’s arms were crossed, and his countenance was gloomy.  He had been promised a holiday that afternoon to give his mistress, Sally, Kilne’s cook, an airing, and Dandy knew in his soul that Sally, when she once made up her mind to an excursion, would go, and would not go alone, and that her very force of will endangered her constancy.  He had begged humbly to be allowed to stay, but Mrs. Mel could not trust him.  She ought to have told him so, perhaps.  Explanations were not approved of by this well-intended despot, and however beneficial her resolves might turn out for all parties, it was natural that in the interim the children of her rule should revolt, and Dandy, picturing his Sally flaunting on the arm of some accursed low marine, haply, kicked against Mrs. Mel’s sovereignty, though all that he did was to shoot out his fist from time to time, and grunt through his set teeth:  ‘Iron!’ to express the character of her awful rule.