spoken a word to show him that she had marked the change.  She had known, moreover, the cause of his altered manner, and having considered much, had resolved that she would live it down.  She had declared to herself that she had done no deed and spoken no word that justified suspicion, and therefore she would make no change in her ways, or show herself to be conscious that she was suspected.  But now,—­having her mother’s letter in her hand,—­she could bring him to an explanation without making him aware that she had ever thought that he had been jealous of her.  To her, her mother’s letter was a great assistance.  It justified a scene like this, and enabled her to fight her battle after her own fashion.  As for eloping with any Mr Palliser, and giving up the position which she had won;—­no, indeed!  She had been fastened in her grooves too well for that!  Her mother, in entertaining any fear on such a subject, had shown herself to be ignorant of the solidity of her daughter’s character.

“Well, Gustavus,” she said at last.  “You must say what answer I shall make, or whether I shall make any answer.”  But he was not even yet ready to instruct her.  So he unfolded the letter and read it again, and she poured out for herself a cup of tea.

“It’s a very serious matter,” said he.

“Yes, it is serious; I could not but think such a letter from my mother to be serious.  Had it come from any one else I doubt whether I should have troubled you; unless, indeed, it had been from any as near to you as she is to me.  As it is, you cannot but feel that I am right.”

“Right!  Oh, yes, you are right,—­quite right to tell me; you should tell me everything.  D——­ them!” But whom he meant to condemn he did not explain.

“I am above all things averse to cause you trouble,” she said.  “I have seen some little things of late—­”

“Has he ever said anything to you?”

“Who,—­Mr Palliser?  Never a word.”

“He has hinted at nothing of this kind?”

“Never a word.  Had he done so, I must have made you understand that he could not have been allowed again into my drawing-room.”  Then again he read the letter, or pretended to do so.

“Your mother means well,” he said.

“Oh, yes, she means well.  She has been foolish to believe the tittle-tattle that has reached her,—­very foolish to oblige me to give you this annoyance.”

“Oh, as for that, I’m not annoyed.  By Jove, no.  Come, Griselda, let us have it all out; other people have said this, and I have been unhappy.  Now, you know it all.”

“Have I made you unhappy?”

“Well, no; not you.  Don’t be hard upon me when I tell you the whole truth.  Fools and brutes have whispered things that have vexed me.  They may whisper till the devil fetches them, but they shan’t annoy me again.  Give me a kiss, my girl.”  And he absolutely put out his arms and embraced her.  “Write a good-natured letter to your mother, and ask her to come up for a week in May.  That’ll be the best thing; and then she’ll understand.  By Jove, it’s twelve o’clock.  Goodbye.”