“The cat,” said Dr. Middleton, taking breath for a sentence, “that humps her back in the figure of the letter H, or a Chinese bridge has given the dog her answer and her reasons, we may presume:  but he that undertakes to translate them into human speech might likewise venture to propose an addition to the alphabet and a continuation of Homer.  The one performance would be not more wonderful than the other.  Daughters, Willoughby, daughters!  Above most human peccancies, I do abhor a breach of faith.  She will not be guilty of that.  I demand a cheerful fulfilment of a pledge:  and I sigh to think that I cannot count on it without administering a lecture.”

“She will soon be my care, sir.”

“She shall be.  Why, she is as good as married.  She is at the altar.  She is in her house.  She is—­why, where is she not?  She has entered the sanctuary.  She is out of the market.  This maenad shriek for freedom would happily entitle her to the Republican cap—­the Phrygian—­in a revolutionary Parisian procession.  To me it has no meaning; and but that I cannot credit child of mine with mania, I should be in trepidation of her wits.”

Sir Willoughby’s livelier fears were pacified by the information that Clara had simply emitted a cry.  Clara had once or twice given him cause for starting and considering whether to think of her sex differently or condemningly of her, yet he could not deem her capable of fully unbosoming herself even to him, and under excitement.  His idea of the cowardice of girls combined with his ideal of a waxwork sex to persuade him that though they are often (he had experienced it) wantonly desperate in their acts, their tongues are curbed by rosy prudency.  And this was in his favour.  For if she proved speechless and stupid with Mrs. Mountstuart, the lady would turn her over, and beat her flat, beat her angular, in fine, turn her to any shape, despising her, and cordially believe him to be the model gentleman of Christendom.  She would fill in the outlines he had sketched to her of a picture that he had small pride in by comparison with his early vision of a fortune-favoured, triumphing squire, whose career is like the sun’s, intelligibly lordly to all comprehensions.  Not like your model gentleman, that has to be expounded—­a thing for abstract esteem!  However, it was the choice left to him.  And an alternative was enfolded in that.  Mrs. Mountstuart’s model gentleman could marry either one of two women, throwing the other overboard.  He was bound to marry:  he was bound to take to himself one of them:  and whichever one he selected would cast a lustre on his reputation.  At least she would rescue him from the claws of Lady Busshe, and her owl’s hoot of “Willow Pattern”, and her hag’s shriek of “twice jilted”.  That flying infant Willoughby—­his unprotected little incorporeal omnipresent Self (not thought of so much as passionately felt for)—­would not be scoffed at as the luckless with women.  A fall indeed from his original conception of his name of fame abroad!  But Willoughby had the high consolation of knowing that others have fallen lower.  There is the fate of the devils to comfort us, if we are driven hard.  “For one of your pangs another bosom is racked by ten”, we read in the solacing Book.