As a cobweb to a cabbage-net, so fine was Mrs. Bazalgette’s reticulation compared with Uncle Fountain’s.  She invited Mr. Hardie to stay a fortnight with her, commencing just one day before Lucy’s return.  She arranged a round of gayety to celebrate the double event.  What could be more simple?  Yet there was policy below.  The whirl of pleasure was to make Lucy forget everybody at Font Abbey; to empty her heart, and pave Mrs. B.’s candidate’s way to the vacancy.  Then, she never threw Mr. Hardie at Lucy’s head, contenting herself with speaking of him with veneration when Lucy herself or others introduced his name.  She was always contriving to throw the pair together, but no mortal could see her hand at work in it. Bref, a she-spider.  The first day or two she watched her niece on the sly, just to see whether she regretted Font Abbey, or, in other words, Mr. Talboys.  Well acquainted with all the subtle signs by which women read one another, she observed with some uneasiness that Lucy appeared somewhat listless and pensive at times, when left quite to herself.  Once she found her with her cheek in her hand, and, by the way the young lady averted her head and slid suddenly into distinct cheerfulness, suspected there must have been tears in her eyes, but could not be positive.  Next, she noticed with satisfaction that the round of gayety, including, as it did, morning rides as well as evening dances, dissipated these little reveries and languors.  She inferred that either there was nothing in them but a sort of sediment of ennui, the natural remains of a visit to Font Abbey, or that, if there was anything more, it had yielded to the active pleasures she had provided, and to the lady’s easy temper, and love of society, “the only thing she loves, or ever will,” said Mrs. B., assuming prophecy.

“Aunt, how superior Mr. Hardie’s conversation is.  He interests one in topics that are unbearable generally; politics now.  I thought I abhorred them, but I find it was only those little paltry Whig and Tory squabbles that wearied me.  Mr. Hardie’s views are neither Whig nor Tory; they are patriotic, and sober, and large-minded.  He thinks of the country.  I can take some interest in what he calls politics.”

“And, pray, what is that?”

“Well, aunt, the liberation of commerce from its fetters for one thing.  I can contrive to be interested in that, because I know England can be great only by commerce.  Then the education of all classes, because without that England cannot be enlightened or good.”

“He never says a word to me about such things,” said Mrs. Bazalgette; “I suppose he thinks they are above poor me.”  She delivered this with so admirable an imitation of pique, that the courtier was deceived, and applied butter to “a fox’s wound.”

“Oh no, aunt.  Consider; if that was it, he would not waste them on me, who am so inferior to you in sagacity.  More likely he says, ’This young lady has not yet completed her education; I will sprinkle a little good sense among her frivolous accomplishments.’  Whatever the motive, I am very much obliged to Mr. Hardie.  A man of sense is so refreshing after—­(full stop).  What do you think of his voice?”