“Oh! the Countess! the Countess!” exclaimed Rose to Drummond’s pathetic shake of the head. She and Drummond were fully agreed about the Countess; Drummond mimicking the lady: “In verity, she is most mellifluous!” while Rose sugared her lips and leaned gracefully forward with “De Saldar, let me petition you—since we must endure our title—since it is not to be your Louisa?” and her eyes sought the ceiling, and her hand slowly melted into her drapery, as the Countess was wont to effect it. Lady Jocelyn laughed, but said: “You’re too hard upon the Countess. The female euphuist is not to be met with every day. It’s a different kind from the Precieuse. She is not a Precieuse. She has made a capital selection of her vocabulary from Johnson, and does not work it badly, if we may judge by Harry and Melville. Euphuism—[affectation D.W.]—in ‘woman’ is the popular ideal of a Duchess. She has it by nature, or she has studied it: and if so, you must respect her abilities.” “Yes—Harry!” said Rose, who was angry at a loss of influence over her rough brother, “any one could manage Harry! and Uncle Mel’s a goose. You should see what a ‘female euphuist’ Dorry is getting. She says in the Countess’s hearing: ‘Rose! I should in verity wish to play, if it were pleasing to my sweet cousin?’ I’m ready to die with laughing. I don’t do it, Mama.” The Countess, thus being discussed, was closeted with old Mrs. Bonner: not idle. Like Hannibal in Italy, she had crossed her Alps in attaining Beckley Court, and here in the enemy’s country the wary general found herself under the necessity of throwing up entrenchments to fly to in case of defeat. Sir Abraham Harrington of Torquay, who had helped her to cross the Alps, became a formidable barrier against her return. Meantime Evan was riding over to Fallowfield, and as he rode under black visions between the hedgeways crowned with their hop-garlands, a fragrance of roses saluted his nostril, and he called to mind the red and the white the peerless representative of the two had given him, and which he had thrust sullenly in his breast-pocket and he drew them out to look at them reproachfully and sigh farewell to all the roses of life, when in company with them he found in his hand the forgotten letter delivered to him on the cricket-field the day of the memorable match. He smelt at the roses, and turned the letter this way and that. His name was correctly worded on the outside. With an odd reluctance to open it, he kept trifling over the flowers, and then broke the broad seal, and these are the words that met his eyes: “Mr. EVAN HARRINGTON. “You have made up your mind to be a tailor, instead of a Tomnoddy. You’re right. Not too many men in the world—plenty of nincompoops.