“There!” said Lucy, courageously, enforcing her aunt’s thunderbolt; and she leaned toward Mrs. Bazalgette, and shot back a glance of defiance, with arching neck, at Mr. Bazalgette.

After breakfast she ran to Mrs. Bazalgette.  “What was it?”

“Oh, nothing; only the gentlemen were beginning to grin.”

“Oh, dear! did I say anything—­ridiculous?”

“No, because I stopped you in time.  Mind, Lucy, it is never safe to read letters out from people in that class of life; they talk about everything, and use words that are quite out of date.  I stopped you because I know you are a simpleton, and so I could not tell what might pop out next.”

“Oh, thank you, aunt—­thank you,” cried Lucy, warmly.  “Then I did not expose myself, after all.”

“No, no; you said nothing that might not be proclaimed at St. Paul’s Cross—­ha! ha!”

“Am I a simpleton, aunt?” inquired Lucy, in the tone of an indifferent person seeking knowledge.

“Not you,” replied this oblivious lady.  “You know a great deal more than most girls of your age.  To be sure, girls that have been at a fashionable school generally manage to learn one or two things you have no idea of.”

“Naturally.”

“As you say—­he! he!  But you make up for it, my dear, in other respects.  If the gentlemen take you for a pane of glass, why, all the better; meantime, shall I tell you your real character?  I have only just discovered it myself.”

“Oh, yes, aunt, tell me my character.  I should so like to hear it from you.”

“Should you?” said the other, a little satirically; “well, then, you are an INNOCENT FOX.”

“Aunt!”

“An in-no-cent fox; so run and get your work-box.  I want you to run up a tear in my flounce.”

Lucy went thoughtfully for her workbox, murmuring ruefully, “I am an innocent fox—­I am an in-nocent fox.”

She did not like her new character at all; it mortified her, and seemed self-contradictory as well as derogatory.

On her return she could not help remonstrating:  “How can that be my character?  A fox is cunning, and I despise cunning; and I am sure I am not innocent," added she, putting up both hands and looking penitent.  With all this, a shade of vexation was painted on her lovely cheeks as she appealed against her epigram.

Mrs. Bazalgette (with the calm, inexorable superiority of matron despotism).  “You are an in-nocent fox!!  Is your needle threaded?  Here is the tear; no, not there.  I caught against the flowerpot frame, and I’ll swear I heard my gown go.  Look lower down, dear.  Don’t give it up.”

All which may perhaps remind the learned and sneering reader of another fox—­the one that “had a wound, and he could not tell where.”

They rode out to-day as usual, and David had the equivocal pleasure of seeing them go from the door.