“Painters have painted out ‘Melchisedec’ this afternoon. Yes,—ah! In and out—as the saying goes.” Here was an opportunity to mortify the Countess. Mrs. Fiske placidly remarked: “Have we the other put up in its stead? It’s shorter.” A twinge of weakness had made Evan request that the name of Evan Harrington should not decorate the shopfront till he had turned his back on it, for a time. Mrs. Mel crushed her venomous niece. “What have you to do with such things? Shine in your own affairs first, Ann, before you meddle with others.” Relieved at hearing that “Melchisedec” was painted out, and unsuspicious of the announcement that should replace it, the Countess asked Mrs. Wishaw if she thought Evan like her dear Papa. “So like,” returned the lady, “that I would not be alone with him yet, for worlds. I should expect him to be making love to me: for, you know, my dear—I must be familiar—Mel never could be alone with you, without! It was his nature. I speak of him before marriage. But, if I can trust myself with him, I shall take charge of Mr. Evan, and show him some London society.” “That is indeed kind,” said the Countess, glad of a thick veil for the utterance of her contempt. “Evan, though—I fear—will be rather engaged. His friends, the Jocelyns of Beckley Court, will—I fear—hardly dispense with him and Lady Splenders—you know her? the Marchioness of Splenders? No?—by repute, at least: a most beautiful and most fascinating woman; report of him alone has induced her to say that Evan must and shall form a part of her autumnal gathering at Splenders Castle. And how he is to get out of it, I cannot tell. But I am sure his multitudinous engagements will not prevent his paying due court to Mistress Wishaw.” As the Countess intended, Mistress Wishaw’s vanity was reproved, and her ambition excited: a pretty doublestroke, only possible to dexterous players. The lady rejoined that she hoped so, she was sure; and forthwith (because she suddenly seemed to possess him more than his son), launched upon Mel’s incomparable personal attractions. This caused the Countess to enlarge upon Evan’s vast personal prospects. They talked across each other a little, till the Countess remembered her breeding, allowed Mrs. Wishaw to run to an end in hollow exclamations, and put a finish to the undeclared controversy, by a traverse of speech, as if she were taking up the most important subject of their late colloquy. “But Evan is not in his own hands—he is in the hands of a lovely young woman, I must tell you. He belongs to her, and not to us. You have heard of Rose Jocelyn, the celebrated heiress?” “Engaged?” Mrs. Wishaw whispered aloud. The Countess, an adept in the lie implied—practised by her, that she might not subject herself to future punishment (in which she was so devout a believer, that she condemned whole hosts to it)—deeply smiled.