“What is that? declined Mr. Hardie? when did he ever propose for her?”

“You misunderstand me.  She came to me and told me she would never marry him.”

“When was that?  I don’t believe it.”

“It was in the ball-room.”

Mrs. Bazalgette reflected; then she turned very red.  “Well, sir,” said she, “don’t build too much on that; for four months ago she made me a solemn promise she would never marry any lover you should find her, and she repeated that promise in your very house.”

“I don’t believe it, madam.”

“That is polite, sir.  Come, Mr. Fountain, you are agitated and cross, and it is no use being cross either with me or with Lucy.  You asked my co-operation.  You gentlemen can ask anything; and you are wise to do these droll things; that is where you gain the advantage over us poor cowards of women.  Well, I will co-operate with you.  Now listen.  Lucy’s penchant is neither for Mr. Hardie, nor Mr. Talboys, but for Mr. Dodd.”

“You don’t mean it?”

“Oh, she does not care much for him; she has refused him to my knowledge, and would again; besides, he is gone to India, so there is an end of him. She seems a little languid and out of spirits; it may be because he is gone.  Now, then, is the very time to press a marriage upon her.”

“The very worst time, surely, if she is really such an idiot as to be fretting for a fellow who is away.”

Mrs. Bazalgette informed her new ally condescendingly that he knew nothing of the sex he had undertaken to tackle.

“When a cold-blooded girl like this, who has no strong attachment, is out of spirits, and all that sort of thing, then is the time she falls to any resolute wooer.  She will yield if we both insist, and we will insist.  Only keep your temper, and let nothing tempt you to say an unkind word to her.”

She then rang the bell, and desired that Miss Fountain might be requested to come into the drawing-room for a minute.

“But what are you going to do?”

“Give her the choice of two husbands—­Mr. Talboys or Mr. Hardie.”

“She will take neither, I am afraid.”

“Oh, yes, she will.”

“Which?”

“Ah! the one she dislikes the least.”

“By Jove, you are right—­you are an angel.”  And the old gentleman in his gratitude to her who was outwitting him, and vice versa, kissed Mrs. Bazalgette’s hand with great devotion, in which act he was surprised by Lucy, who floated through the folding-doors.  She said nothing, but her face volumes.

“Sit down, love.”

“Yes, aunt.”

She sat down, and her eye mildly bored both relatives, like, if you can imagine a gentle gimlet, worked by insinuation, not force.

Then the favored Fountain enjoyed the inestimable privilege of beholding a small bout of female fence.

The accomplished actress of forty began.