“What whirl are we in?” Lady Busshe got up, ran two or three steps and seated herself in another chair.  “Oh! do let us proceed upon system.  If not we shall presently be rageing; we shall be dangerous.  The Middletons are here, and Dr. Middleton himself communicates to Mr. Dale that Laetitia Dale has refused the hand of Sir Willoughby, who is ostensibly engaged to his own daughter!  And pray, Mr. Dale, how did Dr. Middleton speak of it?  Compose yourself; there is no violent hurry, though our sympathy with you and our interest in all the parties does perhaps agitate us a little.  Quite at your leisure—­speak!”

“Madam . . .  Lady Busshe.”  Mr. Dale gulped a ball in his throat.  “I see no reason why I should not speak.  I do not see how I can have been deluded.  The Miss Patternes heard him.  Dr. Middleton began upon it, not I. I was unaware, when I came, that it was a refusal.  I had been informed that there was a proposal.  My authority for the tale was positive.  The object of my visit was to assure myself of the integrity of my daughter’s conduct.  She had always the highest sense of honour.  But passion is known to mislead, and there was this most strange report.  I feared that our humblest apologies were due to Dr. Middleton and his daughter.  I know the charm Laetitia can exercise.  Madam, in the plainest language, without a possibility of my misapprehending him, Dr. Middleton spoke of himself as the advocate of the suitor for my daughter’s hand.  I have a poor head.  I supposed at once an amicable rupture between Sir Willoughby and Miss Middleton, or that the version which had reached me of their engagement was not strictly accurate.  My head is weak.  Dr. Middleton’s language is trying to a head like mine; but I can speak positively on the essential points:  he spoke of himself as ready to be the impassioned advocate of the suitor for my daughter’s hand.  Those were his words.  I understood him to entreat me to intercede with her.  Nay, the name was mentioned.  There was no concealment.  I am certain there could not be a misapprehension.  And my feelings were touched by his anxiety for Sir Willoughby’s happiness.  I attributed it to a sentiment upon which I need not dwell.  Impassioned advocate, he said.”

“We are in a perfect maelstrom!” cried Lady Busshe, turning to everybody.

“It is a complete hurricane!” cried Lady Culmer.

A light broke over the faces of the Patterne ladies.  They exchanged it with one another.

They had been so shocked as to be almost offended by Lady Busshe, but their natural gentleness and habitual submission rendered them unequal to the task of checking her.

“Is it not,” said Miss Eleanor, “a misunderstanding that a change of names will rectify?”

“This is by no means the first occasion,” said Miss Isabel, “that Willoughby has pleaded for his cousin Vernon.”

“We deplore extremely the painful error into which Mr. Dale has fallen.”