“Have you baited, Bladen?” asked she.

“Yes’m,” said he, assuringly.

Bladen and Mr. Povey carried out the trunk and the box, and Constance charged herself with parcels which she bestowed in the corners of the vehicle according to her aunt’s prescription; it was like stowing the cargo of a vessel.

“Now, Sophia, my chuck!” Mrs. Baines called up the stairs.  And Sophia came slowly downstairs.  Mrs. Baines offered her mouth.  Sophia glanced at her.

“You needn’t think I don’t see why you’re sending me away!” exclaimed Sophia in a hard, furious voice, with glistening eyes.  “I’m not so blind as all that!” She kissed her mother—­nothing but a contemptuous peck.  Then, as she turned away she added:  “But you let Constance do just as she likes!”

This was her sole bitter comment on the episode, but into it she put all the profound bitterness accumulated during many mutinous nights.

Mrs. Baines concealed a sigh.  The explosion certainly disturbed her.  She had hoped that the smooth surface of things would not be ruffled.

Sophia bounced out.  And the assembly, including several urchins, watched with held breath while Aunt Harriet, after having bid majestic good-byes, got on to the step and introduced herself through the doorway of the waggonette into the interior of the vehicle; it was an operation like threading a needle with cotton too thick.  Once within, her hoops distended in sudden release, filling the waggonette.  Sophia followed, agilely.

As, with due formalities, the equipage drove off, Mrs. Baines gave another sigh, one of relief.  The sisters had won.  She could now await the imminent next advent of Mr. Gerald Scales with tranquillity.

II

Those singular words of Sophia’s, ’But you let Constance do just as she likes,’ had disturbed Mrs. Baines more than was at first apparent.  They worried her like a late fly in autumn.  For she had said nothing to any one about Constance’s case, Mrs. Maddack of course excepted.  She had instinctively felt that she could not show the slightest leniency towards the romantic impulses of her elder daughter without seeming unjust to the younger, and she had acted accordingly.  On the memorable morn of Mr. Povey’s acute jealousy, she had, temporarily at any rate, slaked the fire, banked it down, and hidden it; and since then no word had passed as to the state of Constance’s heart.  In the great peril to be feared from Mr. Scales, Constance’s heart had been put aside as a thing that could wait; so one puts aside the mending of linen when earthquake shocks are about.  Mrs. Baines was sure that Constance had not chattered to Sophia concerning Mr. Povey.  Constance, who understood her mother, had too much commonsense and too nice a sense of propriety to do that—­and yet here was Sophia exclaiming, ‘But you let Constance do just as she likes.’  Were the relations between Constance and Mr. Povey, then, common property?  Did the young lady assistants discuss them?