“You walk well,” she said. Harry’s backbone straightened immediately. “No, no; I do not want you to be a drill-sergeant. Can you not be told you are perfect without seeking to improve, vain boy? You can cricket, and you can walk, and will very soon learn how to give your arm to a lady. I have hopes of you. Of your friends, from whom I have ruthlessly dragged you, I have not much. Am I personally offensive to them, Mr. Harry? I saw them let my brother pass without returning his bow, and they in no way acknowledged my presence as I passed. Are they gentlemen?” “Yes,” said Harry, stupefied by the question. “One’s Ferdinand Laxley, Lord Laxley’s son, heir to the title; the other’s William Harvey, son of the Chief Justice—both friends of mine.” “But not of your manners,” interposed the Countess. “I have not so much compunction as I ought to have in divorcing you from your associates for a few minutes. I think I shall make a scholar of you in one or two essentials. You do want polish. Have I not a right to take you in hand? I have defended you already.” “Me?” cried Harry. “None other than Mr. Harry Jocelyn. Will he vouchsafe to me his pardon? It has been whispered in my ears that his ambition is to be the Don Juan of a country district, and I have said for him, that however grovelling his undirected tastes, he is too truly noble to plume himself upon the reputation they have procured him. Why did I defend you? Women, you know, do not shrink from Don Juans—even provincial Don Juans—as they should, perhaps, for their own sakes! You are all of you dangerous, if a woman is not strictly on her guard. But you will respect your champion, will you not?” Harry was about to reply with wonderful briskness. He stopped, and murmured boorishly that he was sure he was very much obliged. Command of countenance the Countess possessed in common with her sex. Those faces on which we make them depend entirely, women can entirely control. Keenly sensible to humour as the Countess was, her face sidled up to his immovably sweet. Harry looked, and looked away, and looked again. The poor fellow was so profoundly aware of his foolishness that he even doubted whether he was admired. The Countess trifled with his English nature; quietly watched him bob between tugging humility and airy conceit, and went on: “Yes! I will trust you, and that is saying very much, for what protection is a brother? I am alone here—defenceless!” Men, of course, grow virtuously zealous in an instant on behalf of the lovely dame who tells them bewitchingly, she is alone and defenceless, with pitiful dimples round the dewy mouth that entreats their guardianship and mercy! The provincial Don Juan found words—a sign of clearer sensations within. He said: “Upon my honour, I’d look after you better than fifty brothers!” The Countess eyed him softly, and then allowed herself the luxury of a laugh. “No, no! it is not the sheep, it is the wolf I fear.”