‘You are so English!’ cried Dorothy, with perfect languor, and a malicious twitter passed between two or three.  Mr. George spluttered indiscreetly.

The Countess observed the performance.  Not to convert the retreat into a total rout, she, with that dark flush which was her manner of blushing, took formal leave of Lady Jocelyn, who, in return, simply said:  ‘Good-bye, Countess.’  Mrs. Strike’s hand she kindly shook.

The few digs and slaps and thrusts at gloomy Harry and prim Miss Carrington and boorish Mr. George, wherewith the Countess, torn with wrath, thought it necessary to cover her retreat, need not be told.  She struck the weak alone:  Juliana she respected.  Masterly tactics, for they showed her power, gratified her vengeance, and left her unassailed.  On the road she had Andrew to tear to pieces.  O delicious operation!  And O shameful brother to reduce her to such joys!  And, O Providence! may a poor desperate soul, betrayed through her devotion, unremunerated for her humiliation and absolute hard work, accuse thee?  The Countess would have liked to.  She felt it to be the instigation of the devil, and decided to remain on the safe side still.

Happily for Evan, she was not ready with her packing by half-past eleven.  It was near twelve when he, pacing in front of the inn, observed Polly Wheedle, followed some yards in the rear by John Raikes, advancing towards him.  Now Polly had been somewhat delayed by Jack’s persecutions, and Evan declining to attend to the masked speech of her mission, which directed him to go at once down a certain lane in the neighbourhood of the park, some minutes were lost.

‘Why, Mr. Harrington,’ said Polly, ’it’s Miss Rose:  she’s had leave from her Ma.  Can you stop away, when it’s quite proper?’

Evan hesitated.  Before he could conquer the dark spirit, lo, Rose appeared, walking up the village street.  Polly and her adorer fell back.

Timidly, unlike herself, Rose neared him.

’I have offended you, Evan.  You would not come to me:  I have come to you.’

‘I am glad to be able to say good-bye to you, Rose,’ was his pretty response.

Could she have touched his hand then, the blood of these lovers rushing to one channel must have made all clear.  At least he could hardly have struck her true heart with his miserable lie.  But that chance was lost they were in the street, where passions have no play.

‘Tell me, Evan,—­it is not true.’

He, refining on his misery, thought, She would not ask it if she trusted me:  and answered her:  ‘You have heard it from your mother, Rose.’

’But I will not believe it from any lips but yours, Evan.  Oh, speak, speak!’

It pleased him to think:  How could one who loved me believe it even then?

He said:  ‘It can scarcely do good to make me repeat it, Rose.’

And then, seeing her dear bosom heave quickly, he was tempted to fall on his knees to her with a wild outcry of love.  The chance was lost.  The inexorable street forbade it.