’Stop, Sophy, not from me—­that would never do.  I don’t think papa would think twenty-two such a great age—­’

‘But he would have loved her five years!’ said Sophy.  ’And you said yourself that would be constancy!’

’True, but, Sophy, I have known a youth who sailed broken-hearted, and met a lady “just in the style” of the former one, on board the steamer—­’

Sophy made a gesture of impatient disdain, and repeated, ’Do you allow me to tell Gilbert that this is the way?’

’Not from me.  I hold out no hope.  I don’t believe Genevieve cares for him, and I don’t know whether his father would consent—­’ but seeing Sophy’s look of disappointment, ’I see no harm in your suggesting it, for it is his only chance with either of them, and would be the proof that his affection was good for something.’

‘And you think her worth it?’

’I think her worth anything in the world—­the more for her behaviour in this matter.  I only doubt if Gilbert have any conception how much she is worth.’

Away went Sophy in a glow that made her almost handsome, while Albinia, as usual, wondered at her own imprudence.

At luncheon Sophy avoided her eye, and looked crestfallen, and when afterwards she gave a mute inquiring address, shook her head impatiently.  It was plain that she had failed, and was too much pained and shamed by his poorness of spirit to be able as yet to speak of it.

Next came Gilbert, who pursued Albinia to the morning-room to entreat her interference in his behalf, appealing piteously to her kindness; but she was obdurate.  If any remonstrance were offered to his father, it must be by himself.

Gilbert fell into a state of misery, threw himself about upon the chairs, and muttered in the fretfulness of childish despair something about its being very hard, when he was owner of half the town, to be sent into exile—­it was like jealousy of his growing up and being master.

‘Take care, Gilbert!’ said Albinia, with a flash of her eye that he felt to his backbone.

‘I don’t mean it,’ cried Gilbert, springing towards her in supplication.  ’I’ve heard it said, that’s all, and was as angry as you, but when a fellow is beside himself with misery at being driven away from all he loves—­not a friend to help him—­how can he keep from thinking all sorts of things?’

‘I wonder what people dare to say it!’ cried Albinia wrathfully; but he did not heed, he was picturing his own future misfortunes—­toil—­ climate—­fevers—­choleras—­Thugs—­coups de soleil—­genuine dread and repugnance working him up to positive agony.

‘Gilbert,’ said Albinia, ’this is trumpery self-torture!  You know this is a mere farrago that you have conjured up.  Your father would neither thrust you into danger, nor compel you to do anything to which you had a reasonable aversion.  Go and be a man about it in one way or the other!  Either accept or refuse, but don’t make these childish lamentations.  They are cowardly!  I should be ashamed of little Maurice if he behaved so!’