The game waxed hot.  It became a question whether Evan should be admitted to the house in spite of the Major.  Juliana now made an extraordinary move.  Having the Count with her in the carriage one day, she stopped in front of Mr. Goren’s shop, and Evan had to come out.  The Count returned home extremely mystified.  Once more the unhappy Countess was obliged to draw bills on the fabulous; and as she had recommenced the system, which was not without its fascinations to her, Juliana, who had touched the spring, had the full benefit of it.  The Countess had deceived her before—­what of that?  She spoke things sweet to hear.  Who could be false that gave her heart food on which it lived?

One night Juliana returned from her drive alarmingly ill.  She was watched through the night by Caroline and the Countess alternately.  In the morning the sisters met.

‘She has consented to let us send for a doctor,’ said Caroline.

‘Her chief desire seems to be a lawyer,’ said the Countess.

‘Yes, but the doctor must be sent for first.’

’Yes, indeed!  But it behoves us to previse that the doctor does not kill her before the lawyer comes.’

Caroline looked at Louisa, and said:  ‘Are you ignorant?’

‘No—­what?’ cried the Countess eagerly.

‘Evan has written to tell Lady Jocelyn the state of her health, and—­’

‘And that naturally has aggravated her malady!’ The Countess cramped her long fingers.  ’The child heard it from him yesterday!  Oh, I could swear at that brother!’

She dropped into a chair and sat rigid and square-jawed, a sculpture of unutterable rage.

In the afternoon Lady Jocelyn arrived.  The doctor was there—­the lawyer had gone.  Without a word of protest Juliana accompanied her ladyship to Beckley Court.  Here was a blow!

But Andrew was preparing one more mighty still.  What if the Cogglesby Brewery proved a basis most unsound?  Where must they fall then?  Alas! on that point whence they sprang.  If not to Perdition—­Tailordom!

CHAPTER XLI

REVEALS AN ABOMINABLE PLOT OF THE BROTHERS COGGLESBY

A lively April day, with strong gusts from the Southwest, and long sweeping clouds, saluted the morning coach from London to Lymport.  Thither Tailordom triumphant was bearing its victim at a rattling pace, to settle him, and seal him for ever out of the ranks of gentlemen:  Society, meantime, howling exclusion to him in the background:  ’Out of our halls, degraded youth:  The smiles of turbaned matrons:  the sighs of delicate maids; genial wit, educated talk, refined scandal, vice in harness, dinners sentineled by stately plush:  these, the flavour of life, are not for you, though you stole a taste of them, wretched impostor!  Pay for it with years of remorse!’