‘I should think no one in their senses could dream of imagining otherwise,’ I interposed, rather too bluntly perhaps. ‘Why, Arthur Thrale is not more than twenty, is he?’ ‘I’m sure I don’t know what age he is,’ replied Miss Sophy, rather crossly—the topic didn’t please her—‘I never ask gentlemen their ages, and it has nothing whatever to do with the point in question.’ ‘When had Love anything to do with Age?’ said Mr. Charteris, still laughing at her, though she could not see it. ‘Young as poor Thrale is, you know that you have made him your slave. Why do you suppose he intends to join the boar-hunt to-day, unless it be to hear his prowess sounded in your ears?’ ‘Don’t you think it would be kinder to persuade him not to go, Mr. Charteris,’ I observed, ‘since I understand that his prowess is more likely to land him on the ground than anywhere else? He is an only son, you know, and if anything were to happen to him, it would doubtless cause great distress to his family.’ ‘Are you acquainted with the Thrales, Hilda?’ asked Mr. Lovett, in surprise. ‘No, sir, not personally; but Mrs. Carolus has received a letter from Mr. Thrale’s mother in England, begging her to look after her son as much as possible whilst he is here, and she repeated the contents of it to me.’ At these words, two of our little party grew considerably rosier; one was Miss Sophia Markham, the other my reverend and saintly guardian. ‘It strikes me as a very extraordinary proceeding,’ ejaculated the lady, ‘that Mrs. Carolus should go about St. Pucelle confiding the contents of her private letters to people who are almost strangers to her.’ ‘Most remarkable!’ acquiesced Mr. Lovett; ‘and I should have thought that had Mrs. Carolus required an adviser on the subject, the pastor of her church would have been the properest person for her to confide in.’ ‘Do you doubt my word, then?’ I asked him quickly. ‘Oh no, my dear Hilda! by no manner of means. If I am disposed to blame any one, it is Mrs. Carolus. Will you tell us what the rest of the letter contained?’ ‘No, sir; I would rather not. It was told me privately, if not as a secret; but if you will ask Mrs. Carolus herself, I have no doubt she will hand the epistle over to you.’ ‘Well, I never heard of such a thing before!’ exclaimed Miss Markham, tossing her head; ‘and it only convinces me of what I have known all along—that Mrs. Carolus is as mean as she is spiteful. She can repeat tales against other people, but she would be very much surprised if other people commenced to tell tales against her. I have held my tongue, of course, because I have made it a rule through life never to say a word against another woman’s character, but I could tell stories, if I chose, that would shut every door in St. Pucelle against Mrs. Carolus to-morrow, and make the few hairs that poor old fool of a husband of hers still possesses stand on end with horror!’