The _Pâte de Guimauve_—to which Miss Chutney was particularly partial—was a fresh force brought to bear against the heart and stomach of the susceptible young lady; and as she devoured the sugared words, and sucked the sweetmeat, she had a twofold reason for thinking the Count the kindest and most polite person she had ever known. Still, the notion of leaving on the morrow was far from being agreeable to her. She wished the Count had made it a day or two later. And yet, how stupid she was; there was not the least chance of her being able to get out of the house—so, of course, it would be all the same to her;—and, perhaps, after all, it would be better, as it would put an end to a very silly transaction on her part: not that she wished to break off her acquaintance with the Count, but the misfortune was, she had not been formally introduced to him. And people did make such a fuss if a girl even looked at a stranger. On that account alone she knew she never could be happy with him. At this juncture, the key again sounded in the door, and again Miss Chutney hastily threw her apron over her head, and hid her face in her hands. This time, the visitor was Mrs. Wewitz; for the old lady, hearing that the dry bread still remained untouched, had grown alarmed at the fancied stubbornness of the girl, and had come to see whether she could not prevail upon her to comply with her daughter’s injunctions. But Mrs. Wewitz had what is called an unfortunate way with her, and although, as usual, she did everything for the best, she unluckily dwelt so long and so forcibly on the coming of Miss Chutney’s guardian, that the girl grew more sulky than ever, and maintained a solemn silence, notwithstanding the old lady’s entreaties and threats; so that, on her quitting the room, Miss Chutney, who before had felt inclined to waver in the course she was pursuing with the Frenchman, was now most anxious to embrace any opportunity that presented itself of avoiding an interview, which, as the time drew near, she got positively to dread. Thus matters progressed until dusk, and then came a letter from the Count, informing her that on her retiring to rest that night, she would find secreted between the mattresses of her bed the garb of a Sister of Charity—(it would become her admirably, he said)—and requesting that she would favour him with her own clothes in exchange for the others. He would be in the playground after dark, and construe the extinguishing of her candle as a signal that she was about to drop them from her window, when he would place himself immediately below the balcony ready to receive them.