Zoe suggested that would only have been a woman obliterated. “That is true,” said he, with an air of hearty conviction. “I forgot that.” He then inquired if she had had a nice walk. “Oh, beautiful! Imprisoned half the time in a cow-shed, and then drenched. But I'll have a nice walk with you, dear, up and down the room.” “Come on, then.” So she put her right hand on his left shoulder, and gave him her left hand, and they walked up and down the room, Zoe beaming with happiness and affection for everybody and walking at a graceful bend. Severne came in, dressed as perfect as though just taken out of a bandbox. He sat down at a little table, and read a little journal unobtrusively. It was his cue to divest his late _te'te-'a-te'te_ of public importance. Then came dinner, and two of the party absent. Vizard heard their voices going like mill-clacks at this sacred hour, and summoned them rather roughly, as stated above. His back was to Zoe, and she rubbed her hands gayly to Severne, and sent him a flying whisper: “Oh, what fun! We are the culprits, and they are the ones scolded.” Dinner waited ten minutes, and then the defaulters appeared. Nothing was said, but Vizard looked rather glum; and Aunt Maitland cast a vicious look at Severne and Zoe: they had made a forced march, and outflanked her. She sat down, and bided her time, like a fowler waiting till the ducks come within shot. But the conversation was commonplace, inconsecutive, shifty, and vague, and it was two hours before anything came within shot: all this time not a soul suspected the ambushed fowler. At last, Vizard, having thrown out one of his hints that the fair sex are imperfect, Fanny, being under the influence of Miss Maitland's revelations, ventured to suggest that they had no more faults than men, and _certainly_ were not more deceitful. “Indeed?” said Vizard. “Not--more--_deceitful!_ Do you speak from experience?” “Oh, no, no,” said Fanny, getting rather frightened. “I only think so, somehow.” “Well, but you must have a reason. May I respectfully inquire whether more men have jilted you than you have jilted?” “You may inquire as respectfully as you like; but I shan't tell you.” “That is right, Miss Dover,” said Severne; “don't you put up with his nonsense. He knows nothing about it: women are angels, compared with men. The wonder is, how they can waste so much truth and constancy and beauty upon the foul sex. To my mind, there is only one thing we beat you in; we do stick by each other rather better than you do. You are truer to us. We are a little truer to each other.” “Not a little,” suggested Vizard, dryly.