“Why rogue?” he insisted with Mrs. Mountstuart.

“I said—­in porcelain,” she replied.

“Rogue perplexes me.”

“Porcelain explains it.”

“She has the keenest sense of honour.”

“I am sure she is a paragon of rectitude.”

“She has a beautiful bearing.”

“The carriage of a young princess!”

“I find her perfect.”

“And still she may be a dainty rogue in porcelain.”

“Are you judging by the mind or the person, ma’am?”

“Both.”

“And which is which?”

“There’s no distinction.”

“Rogue and mistress of Patterne do not go together.”

“Why not?  She will be a novelty to our neighbourhood and an animation of the Hall.”

“To be frank, rogue does not rightly match with me.”

“Take her for a supplement.”

“You like her?”

“In love with her!  I can imagine life-long amusement in her company.  Attend to my advice:  prize the porcelain and play with the rogue.”

Sir Willoughby nodded, unilluminated.  There was nothing of rogue in himself, so there could be nothing of it in his bride.  Elfishness, tricksiness, freakishness, were antipathetic to his nature; and he argued that it was impossible he should have chosen for his complement a person deserving the title.  It would not have been sanctioned by his guardian genius.  His closer acquaintance with Miss Middleton squared with his first impressions; you know that this is convincing; the common jury justifies the presentation of the case to them by the grand jury; and his original conclusion that she was essentially feminine, in other words, a parasite and a chalice, Clara’s conduct confirmed from day to day.  He began to instruct her in the knowledge of himself without reserve, and she, as she grew less timid with him, became more reflective.

“I judge by character,” he said to Mrs. Mountstuart.

“If you have caught the character of a girl,” said she.

“I think I am not far off it.”

“So it was thought by the man who dived for the moon in a well.”

“How women despise their sex!”

“Not a bit.  She has no character yet.  You are forming it, and pray be advised and be merry; the solid is your safest guide; physiognomy and manners will give you more of a girl’s character than all the divings you can do.  She is a charming young woman, only she is one of that sort.”

“Of what sort?” Sir Willoughby asked, impatiently.

“Rogues in porcelain.”

“I am persuaded I shall never comprehend it.”

“I cannot help you one bit further.”

“The word rogue!”

“It was dainty rogue.”

“Brittle, would you say?”

“I am quite unable to say.”

“An innocent naughtiness?”

“Prettily moulded in a delicate substance.”

“You are thinking of some piece of Dresden you suppose her to resemble.”