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170 character is not worth much. But I can make distinctions, my lady.”

Something very like an altercation was continued in a sharp, brief undertone; and then Evan, waking up to the affairs of the hour, heard Conning say:

“I shall not ask your ladyship to give me a character.”

The Countess answering, with pathos: “It would, indeed, be to give you one.”

He was astonished that the Countess should burst into tears when Conning had departed, and yet more so that his effort to console her should bring a bolt of wrath upon himself.

“Now, Evan, now see what you have done for us—do, and rejoice at it. The very menials insult us. You heard what that creature said? She can make distinctions. Oh! I could beat her. They know it: all the servants know it: I can see it in their faces. I feel it when I pass them. The insolent wretches treat us as impostors; and this Conning—to defy me! Oh! it comes of my devotion to you. I am properly chastised. I passed Rose’s maid on the stairs, and her reverence was barely perceptible.”

Evan murmured that he was sorry, adding, foolishly: “Do you really care, Louisa, for what servants think and say?”

The Countess sighed deeply: “Oh! you are too thick-skinned! Your mother from top to toe! It is too dreadful! What have I done to deserve it? Oh, Evan, Evan!”

Her head dropped in her lap. There was something ludicrous to Evan in this excess of grief on account of such a business; but he was tender-hearted and wrought upon to declare that, whether or not he was to blame for his mother’s intrusion that afternoon, he was ready to do what he could to make up to the Countess for her sufferings: whereat the Countess sighed again: asked him what he possibly could do, and doubted his willingness to accede to the most trifling request.

“No; I do in verity believe that were I to desire you to do aught for your own good alone, you would demur, Van.”

He assured her that she was mistaken.

“We shall see,” she said.

“And if, once or twice, I have run counter to you, Louisa—”

“Abominable language!” cried the Countess, stopping her ears like a child. “Do not excruciate me so. You laugh! My goodness! what will you come to!”

Evan checked his smile, and, taking her hand, said: “I must tell you—think what you will of me—I must tell you, that, on the whole, I see nothing to regret in what has happened to dayto-day [sic]. You may notice a change in the manners of the servants and some of the country squiresses, but I find none in the bearing of the real ladies, the true gentlemen, towards me.”

“Because the change is too fine for you to perceive it,” interposed the Countess.

“Rose, then, and her mother, and her father?” Evan cried impetuously.

“As for Lady Jocelyn!” the Countess shrugged: “and Sir Franks!” her head shook: “and Rose, Rose is simply self-willed; a ‘she will’ or ‘she won’t’ sort of little person. No criterion! Henceforth the world is against us. We have to struggle with it: it does not rank us of it!”

“Your feeling on the point is so exaggerated, my dear Louisa,” said Evan, “one can’t bring reason to your ears. The tattle we shall hear we shall outlive. I care extremely for the good opinion of men, but I prefer my own; and I do not lose it because my father was in trade.”

“And your own name, Evan Harrington, is on a shop,” the Countess struck in, and watched him severely from under her brow, glad to mark that he could still blush.

“Oh, Heaven!” she wailed to increase the effect, “on a shop! a brother of mine!”

“Yes, Louisa. It may not last I did it—is it not better that a son should blush, than cast dishonour on his father’s memory?”

“Ridiculous boy-notion!”

“Rose has pardoned it, Louisa—cannot you? I find that the naturally vulgar and narrow-headed people, and cowards who never forego mean advantages, are those only who would condemn me and my conduct in that.”

“And you have joy in your fraction of the world left to you!” exclaimed his female-elder.

Changing her manner to a winning softness, she said: “Let me also belong to the very small party! You have been really romantic, and most generous and noble; only the shop smells! But, never mind, promise me you will not enter it.”

“I hope not,” said Evan.

“You do hope that you will not officiate? Oh, Evan! the eternal contemplation of gentlemen’s legs! think of that! Think of yourself sculptured in that attitude! A fine young man!”

Innumerable little pricks and stings shot over Evan’s skin.

“There—there, Louisa!” he said, impatiently; “spare your ridicule. We go to London to-morrow, and when there I expect to hear that I have an appointment, and that this engagement is over.” He rose and walked up and down the room.

“I shall not be prepared to go to-morrow,” remarked the Countess, drawing her figure up stiffly.

“Oh! well, if you can stay, Andrew will take charge of you, I dare say.”

“No, my dear, Andrew will not—a nonentity cannot—you must.”

“Impossible, Louisa,” said Evan, as one who imagines he is uttering a thing of little consequence. “I promised Rose.”

“You promised Rose that you would abdicate and retire? Sweet, loving girl!”

Evan made no answer.

“You will stay with me, Evan.”

“I really can’t,” he said in his previous careless tone.

“Come and sit down,” cried the Countess, imperiously. “The first trifle is refused. It does not astonish me. I will honour you now by talking seriously to you. I have treated you hitherto as a child. Or, no—” she stopped her mouth; “it is enough if I tell you, dear, that