“Cunning little aunt!  Mr. Talboys happens not to be at home; uncle told me so himself.”

“Simple little niece, uncle told you a fib; Mr. Talboys is at home.  And observe! until I came to Font Abbey, he was here three times a week.  You admit that.  I come; your uncle knows I am not so unobservant as you, and Mr. Talboys is kept out of sight.”

“The proof that my uncle has deceived me,” said Lucy, coldly, and with lofty incredulity.

“Read that note from Miss Dodd!”

“What! you in correspondence with Miss Dodd?”

“That is to say, she has thrust herself into correspondence with me—­just like her assurance.”

The letter ran thus: 

“DEAR MADAM—­My brother requests me to say that, in compliance with your request, he called at the lodge of Talboys Park, and the people informed him Mr. Talboys had not left Talboys Park at all since Easter.  I remain yours, etc.”

Lucy was dumfounded.

“I suspected something, Lucy, so I asked Mr. Dodd to inquire.”

“It was a singular commission to send him on.”

“Oh, he takes long walks—­cruises, he calls them—­and he is so good-natured.  Well, what do you think of your uncle’s veracity now?”

Lucy was troubled and distressed, but she mastered her countenance:  “I think he has sacrificed it for once to his affection for me.  I fear you are right; my eyes are opened to many circumstances.  But do—­oh, pray do!—­see his goodness in all this.”

“The goodness of a story-teller.”

“He admires Mr. Talboys—­he reveres him.  No doubt he wished to secure his poor niece what he thinks a great match, and now you assign ill motives to him.  Yes, I confess he has deviated from truth.  Cruel! cruel! what can you give me in exchange if you rob me of my esteem for those I love!”

This innocent distress, with its cause, were too deep for a lady whose bright little intelligence leaned toward cunning rather than wisdom.  In spite of her niece’s trouble, and the brimming eyes that implored forbearance, she drove the sting, merrily in again and again, till at last Lucy, who was not defending herself, but an absent friend, turned a little suddenly on her and said: 

“And do you think he says nothing against you?”

“Oh, he is a backbiter, too, is he?  I didn’t know he had that vice.  Ah! and, pray, what can he find to say against me?”

“Oh, people that hate one another can always find something ill-natured to say,” retorted Lucy, with a world of meaning.

Mrs. Bazalgette turned red, and her little nose went up into the air at an angle of forty-five.  She said, with majestic disdain:  “I don’t hate the man—­I don’t condescend to hate him.”

“Then don’t condescend to backbite him, dear.”

This home-thrust, coming from such a quarter, took away my Lady Disdain’s very breath.  She sat transfixed; then, upon reflection, got up a tear, and had to be petted.