that Evan was not only the son of the thing, but the thing himself, and that his name could be seen any day in Lymport, and that he had come from the shop to Beckley, poor Rosey had a sick feeling that almost sank her.  For a moment she looked back wildly to the doors of retreat.  Her eyes had to feed on Evan, she had to taste some of the luxury of love, before she could gain composure, and then her arrogance towards those she called her enemies did not quite return.

‘In that letter you told me all—­all—­all, Evan?’

‘Yes, all-religiously.’

‘Oh, why did I miss it!’

‘Would it give you pleasure?’

She feared to speak, being tender as a mother to his sensitiveness.  The expressive action of her eyebrows sufficed.  She could not bear concealment, or doubt, or a shadow of dishonesty; and he, gaining force of soul to join with hers, took her hands and related the contents of the letter fully.  She was pale when he had finished.  It was some time before she was able to get free from the trammels of prejudice, but when she did, she did without reserve, saying:  ’Evan, there is no man who would have done so much.’  These little exaltations and generosities bind lovers tightly.  He accepted the credit she gave him, and at that we need not wonder.  It helped him further to accept herself, otherwise could he—­his name known to be on a shop-front—­have aspired to her still?  But, as an unexampled man, princely in soul, as he felt, why, he might kneel to Rose Jocelyn.  So they listened to one another, and blinded the world by putting bandages on their eyes, after the fashion of little boys and girls.

Meantime the fair being who had brought these two from the ends of the social scale into this happy tangle, the beneficent Countess, was wretched.  When you are in the enemy’s country you are dependent on the activity and zeal of your spies and scouts, and the best of these—­Polly Wheedle, to wit—­had proved defective, recalcitrant even.  And because a letter had been lost in her room! as the Countess exclaimed to herself, though Polly gave her no reasons.  The Countess had, therefore, to rely chiefly upon personal observation, upon her intuitions, upon her sensations in the proximity of the people to whom she was opposed; and from these she gathered that she was, to use the word which seemed fitting to her, betrayed.  Still to be sweet, still to smile and to amuse,—­still to give her zealous attention to the business of the diplomatist’s Election, still to go through her church-services devoutly, required heroism; she was equal to it, for she had remarkable courage; but it was hard to feel no longer at one with Providence.  Had not Providence suggested Sir Abraham to her? killed him off at the right moment in aid of her?  And now Providence had turned, and the assistance she had formerly received from that Power, and given thanks for so profusely, was the cause of her terror.  It was absolutely as if she had been borrowing from a Jew, and were called upon to pay fifty-fold interest.