Following Evan, Rose went to her father and gave him a good hour’s excitement, after which the worthy gentleman hurried for consolation to Lady Jocelyn, whom he found reading a book of French memoirs, in her usual attitude, with her feet stretched out and her head thrown back, as in a distant survey of the lively people screening her from a troubled world. Her ladyship read him a piquant story, and Sir Franks capped it with another from memory; whereupon her ladyship held him wrong in one turn of the story, and Sir Franks rose to get the volume to verify, and while he was turning over the leaves, Lady Jocelyn told him incidentally of old Tom Cogglesby’s visit and proposal. Sir Franks found the passage, and that her ladyship was right, which it did not move her countenance to hear. “Ah!” said he, finding it no use to pretend there was no bother in the world, “here’s a pretty pickle! Rose says she will have that fellow.” “Hum!” replied her ladyship. “And if she keeps her mind a couple of years, it will be a wonder.” “Very bad for her this sort of thing—talked about,” muttered Sir Franks. “Ferdinand was just the man.” “Well, yes; I suppose it’s her mistake to think brains an absolute requisite,” said Lady Jocelyn, opening her book again, and scanning down a column. Sir Franks, being imitative, adopted a similar refuge, and the talk between them was varied by quotations and choice bits from the authors they had recourse to. Both leaned back in their chairs, and spoke with their eyes on their books. “Julia’s going to write to her mother,” said he. “Very filial and proper,” said she. “There’ll be a horrible hubbub, you know, Emily.” “Most probably. I shall get the blame; ‘cela se conçoit’.” “Young Harrington goes the day after to-morrow. Thought it better not to pack him off in a hurry.” “And just before the pic-nic; no, certainly. I suppose it would look odd.” “How are we to get rid of the Countess?” “Eh? This Bautru is amusing, Franks; but he’s nothing to Vandy. “Homme incomparable!” On the whole I find Menage rather dull. The Countess? what an accomplished liar that woman is! She seems to have stepped out of Tallemant’s Gallery. Concerning the Countess, I suppose you had better apply to Melville.” “Where the deuce did this young Harrington get his breeding from?” “He comes of a notable sire.” “Yes, but there’s no sign of the snob in him.”