At the table, awaiting them, sat Mrs. Wishaw, Mrs. Fiske, and Mr. Goren, who soon found themselves enveloped in the Countess’s graciousness. Mr. Goren would talk of trade, and compare Lymport business with London, and the Countess, loftily interested in his remarks, drew him out to disgust her brother. Mrs. Wishaw, in whom the Countess at once discovered a frivolous pretentious woman of the moneyed trading class, she treated as one who was alive to society, and surveyed matters from a station in the world, leading her to think that she tolerated Mr. Goren, as a lady-Christian of the highest rank should tolerate the insects that toil for us. Mrs. Fiske was not so tractable, for Mrs. Fiske was hostile and armed. Mrs. Fiske adored the great Mel, and she had never loved Louisa. Hence, she scorned Louisa on account of her late behaviour toward her dead parent. The Countess saw through her, and laboured to be friendly with her, while she rendered her disagreeable in the eyes of Mrs. Wishaw, and let Mrs. Wishaw perceive that sympathy was possible between them; manoeuvring a trifle too delicate, perhaps, for the people present, but sufficient to blind its keen-witted author to the something that was being concealed from herself, of which something, nevertheless, her senses apprehensively warned her: and they might have spoken to her wits, but that mortals cannot, unaided, guess, or will not, unless struck in the face by the fact, credit, what is to their minds the last horror. “I came down in the coach, quite accidental, with this gentleman,” said Mrs. Wishaw, fanning a cheek and nodding at Mr. Goren. “I’m an old flame of dear Mel’s. I knew him when he was an apprentice in London. Now, wasn’t it odd? Your mother—I suppose I must call you ‘my lady’?” The Countess breathed a tender “Spare me,” with a smile that added, “among friends!” Mrs. Wishaw resumed: “Your mother was an old flame of this gentleman’s, I found out. So there were two old flames, and I couldn’t help thinking! But I was so glad to have seen dear Mel once more.” “Ah!” sighed the Countess. “He was always a martial-looking man, and laid out, he was quite imposing. I declare, I cried so, as it reminded me of when I couldn’t have him, for he had nothing but his legs and arms—and I married Wishaw. But it’s a comfort to think I have been of some service to dear, dear Mel! for Wishaw’s a man of accounts and payments; and I knew Mel had cloth from him, and,” the lady suggested bills delayed, with two or three nods, “you know! and I’ll do my best for his son.” “You are kind,” said the Countess, smiling internally at the vulgar creature’s misconception of Evan’s requirements. “Did he ever talk much about Mary Fence?” asked Mrs. Wishaw. “‘Polly Fence,’ he used to say, ‘sweet Polly Fence!’” “Oh! I think so. Frequently,” observed the Countess. Mrs. Fiske primmed her mouth. She had never heard the great Mel allude to the name of Fence. The Goren-croak was heard: